


To Keep From Drowning

by Seaver



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Family, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Katsuki Yuuri and Victor Nikiforov are Yuri Plisetsky's Parents, Loss, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2018-12-31 01:04:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12121182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seaver/pseuds/Seaver
Summary: Yuri Plisetsky is on the cusp of qualifying for his second GPF when the news comes in: his grandfather has unexpectedly passed away.  Yuri finds himself whisked off to Moscow with an emotionally awkward Yakov and the far-too-attentive duo of Yuuri and Victor.  Add in an alcoholic mother and an emotionally abusive uncle, and there's only one way Yuri can possibly survive the weekend: plant himself firmly in denial and stay there.





	1. Skate America (Prologue)

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own YoI, because if I did, you'd all be watching season two right now.
> 
> ...I haven't uploaded fanfiction in literally a decade. People still do disclaimers, right?

Victor doesn’t usually get to be a spectator in a skating event, no competing, no coaching. _It’s kind of fun to watch,_ Yuuri thinks fondly. Victor’s like a kid in a candy store. Earlier, he tried to convince Yuuri to join him in gorging on snacks from the concession stand. “We have to get the full experience,” he had said. Yuuri laughed and shook his head, reminding him that just because they had both already qualified for this year’s Grand Prix Final, it was no reason to let themselves go. They would be competing again in less than two weeks, after all.

Jean-Jacques Leroy skates past the stands, striking a pose for all his loyal fans, and Victor chuckles. “Looks like JJ’s as confident as ever,” he notes. One of JJ’s fangirls shoots Victor an expectant look and he obediently waves a little flag that she had thrust into his hands minutes before.

“Yeah,” Yuuri agrees, even though he’s not paying attention to what was happening on the ice. “But there’s only one spot left for the Grand Prix final now that Otabek will be on the podium. And Yurio’s a shoe-in.” He indulges himself on just _one_ piece of popcorn. “It’s not JJ’s year.”

They had decided come all the way to watch Skate America live on a whim, a pre-GPF vacation to support Yurio and annoy Yakov (Victor’s words). So far, the competition has gone the way everyone had predicted. It’s been fun to watch everyone’s programs, but Yuuri had been hoping for a little excitement. At least the shopping in New York had been good for Victor.

“I know!” Victor’s bangs flip as he spins around to face Yuuri. His eyes are wild, and there’s a huge smile on his face. Yuuri has learned to associate this look with one of Victor’s eccentric, and sometimes misguided, ideas. “Let’s go wish Yurio good luck before his free skate!”

Yuuri immediately shakes his head. Yurio will probably just end up harassing them for caring. Or yell at them for gloating, since they had both already qualified for the Grand Prix Final. Yurio likes to find things to yell about.

When Yuuri points this out, Victor just laughs. “Great,” he says, “let him blow off some steam at us before he gets on the ice. Maybe then we could claim some credit for his victory!”

Yuuri grins and shakes his head, but he knows arguing with Victor is futile. Already, Victor’s halfway out of his seat, abandoning the JJ flag. Yuuri scrambles to follow.

They have no sooner shown their skater IDs to the guards when Yakov’s voice comes floating down the hall.

“Yes, tonight… No.”

His voice sounds uncharacteristically grim. Yuuri and Victor exchange a look and round the corner to investigate. When Yakov catches sight of them he holds up a finger to finish his conversation. As he finally says goodbye, Yuuri notices how drawn his face looks.

Victor must see it too. “What’s wrong, Yakov?” he asks immediately, before Yakov has properly hung up the phone.

Yakov shushes him and glances up and down the hall. Once he sees they are alone, he looks at Victor with sad eyes. “Nikolai has passed away.”

Victor’s hands fly to his mouth. “Yurio’s grandfather?”

Yuuri gasps, feeling the full weight of the words. There’s the instant pang of sympathy for Yurio, of course, but also a tiny bit of fear. Yurio, as strong as he makes himself out to be, is an unpredictable bottle of pent-up emotion. Who knows how he’ll take this news?

Yakov nods. “I just got the call.”

“Does Yurio know?” Yuuri’s voice is hushed.

Yakov shakes his head. “I didn’t think it right to tell him right before he skates.”

Shock is quickly replaced by indignation in Yuuri’s chest. “Don’t you think he should know?” It comes out a little more accusatory than he means it to. “His grandfather’s the most important person in the world to him.”

“I know. That’s why he shouldn’t know, not before he goes out on the ice.” Yakov’s face hardens. “Don’t tell me how to coach my skaters, Yuuri.” The words carry a hint of a threat to them.

Yuuri’s mouth becomes a thin, rebellious line. This has nothing to do with coaching. This is about Yurio’s personal life, and the information shouldn’t be kept from him.

With Yakov, though, Yuuri can sense that he’s hit a nerve, and he doesn’t know the coach well enough to pick a fight with him. Yuuri turns to Victor for support, but can immediately tell by the look on Victor’s face that no help will come.

“He’s right, Yuuri,” Victor says, looking solemn. “Yakov’s the closest thing Yurio has to family right now. He’s the one who has to tell him, and he should do it on his own terms.”

There’s an awkward pause when Yuuri debates standing up to both of them, but then Yuuri catches a glimpse of the look on Yakov’s face. He’s staring at the ground, shoulders slumped with responsibility.

Victor goes on. “Don’t you remember what happened after Vicchan died?” This brings a scowl to Yuuri’s face. How could he forget? Victor puts a hand on his shoulder. “Haven’t you ever wished that your sister hadn’t called you until after the competition?”

Yuuri hasn’t. Not once. His dog had died, and he had wanted to know.

“Look,” Yakov cuts in, his voice a little more patient. “I’ve already called the airlines, and the soonest they can get us back to Moscow is on the red-eye tonight. Pulling Yura out of the competition now would not get him back to Russia any earlier.” Yakov clenches his fists, frown lines etched into his face. “Nikolai is gone. There’s nothing anyone can do at this point. Whether Yuri knows now or an hour from now…” He looks down the hall toward the locker rooms. “The only difference it makes is on his performance.”

Yuuri still isn’t convinced it’s the right thing to do, but as he looks back and forth between Victor and Yakov, his arguments dying on tongue. Yakov and Victor have spent years watching Yurio grow up. Both of them have contributed, in no small way, to his upbringing.

It’s not Yuuri’s place to make this decision.

“HEY!” Yurio’s voice echoes down the hallway. The three turn and see him poking his head out of the locker room. “What are you two idiots doing here? I thought you’d want to get a sneak peek at how I’ll kick your asses at the Grand Prix Final!” He shoots them the middle finger with a cocky grin, then beckons to Yakov. “Come on, it’s time to go.”

Yakov sighs as he turns to leave them. Yuuri feels devastated as he watches Yurio retreat to the locker room, on the brink of winning a medal with no idea what’s waiting for him afterward. It enough to bring tears to Yuuri’s eyes, and Victor wraps an arm around his shoulders and leads him away.

Despite all the sharp insults and angry comments, Yurio is still just a sixteen-year-old kid.

He doesn’t deserve this.


	2. The day Yuri's grandfather dies

Yuri is ecstatic at the kiss and cry. He’s snatched gold at Skate America. Between this and his silver at the Cup of China, he is sitting comfortably as one of the contenders at the Grand Prix Final. Victor and Yuuri have made it, too, and today his friend Otabek has also scored high enough to qualify as well. Christophe Giacometti took the final slot.

It’ll be a good competition this year.

The scores were just announced, and since Yakov hasn’t said a word yet, Yuri turns to him with a huge grin on his face. “I made first, Yakov!”

His coach sits stone-faced, staring at the scoreboard. His expression gives Yuri pause, but he quickly shakes it off. Yakov is always stone-faced.

“Hey!” Yuri has the urge to wave his hand in front of Yakov’s face, but since the cameras are trained on them, he tries to keep a little decorum and just bumps his shoulder into Yakov’s arm instead. “Have you gone deaf, old man?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Yuri sees Victor and Yuuri standing rinkside, watching him receive his scores. Typical. Only competitors, coaches, and press are supposed to be here on the floor. Yuuri had promised they would only be at Skate America as spectators, but they had already broken that promise once, when he caught them outside the locker room with Yakov before the free skate. God, why did they have to be such stalkers all the time?

At least when Yuuri catches his eye, he has the good grace to look embarrassed. He turns his head and whispers something to Victor. Victor shakes his head in response. Are those tears in Yuuri’s eyes? Weak. Yuri knows his routine is beautiful, but come on.

“You’ve got quite the challenge ahead of you.” The voice of Yakov cuts through his thoughts, finally reacting to Yuri’s win.

Yuri tears his eyes away from the couple and looks at Yakov. “ _Da_ ,” he says, “But I beat them all last year.” Except Victor, that is, but he’s old and washed up.

Yuri is sure Yakov will lecture him about his ego, some crap about not underestimating his opponents, but instead his coach just rises to his feet and walks out of the camera’s range. Yuri furrows his brow. Yakov’s acting weird. Yuri hops up and follows him.

“Yakov,” Yuri says, almost out of breath as he weaves through the crowd, “Hey, wait!”

“Just do your interviews and change quickly,” Yakov says over his shoulder. “I’ll have a cab waiting.”

“Wait!” Yuri says again. He catches Yakov by the arm and forces him to turn around. “Yakov, are you mad at me?” He looks up at him, confused.

The old man’s face is as stern as ever, but there is something soft in Yakov’s eyes. “Of course not, Yura. You skated well today.”

Yuri drops his hand from Yakov’s arm and lets him leave, then turns to face the press alone.

 

* * *

 

Yuri had been hoping to get some answers when he got into the cab with Yakov, but the coach has been almost exclusively on his phone since Yuri buckled his seatbelt. It’s unusual. Yakov usually uses his phone mainly for calls, but today he seems to be doing a lot of texting and answering emails. Yuri notices he seems a little restless, too. When he’s not on his phone, he’s glancing around, as if counting the blocks back to the hotel.

Crazy old man.

Yuri pouts, feeling a little empty at the lack of fanfare surrounding his gold medal. When it’s clear Yakov isn’t going to say anything to him about his win, he finally pulls a pair of earbuds out of his backpack, stringing them from his phone to his ears. Before he can choose his music, though, Yakov reaches over and tugs the earbuds out.

“Hey!” Yuri says indignantly. He checks that Yakov hasn’t damaged the cord.

“Yura.” Something in Yakov’s voice makes Yuri look up. “I have something to tell you.” He is staring Yuri down with the same intensity he had right after Yuri had sprained his ankle when he was thirteen. Yuri had almost missed the Junior qualifiers that year.

Yuri’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “What?”

“When we get to the hotel, you need to pack, and quickly. We’re not flying home in the morning. We’re leaving tonight.”

For a brief moment, Yuri is ready to argue. He’s just barely finished competing. He doesn’t want to leave for a nine-and-a-half hour flight!

But Yuri catches the words before he says them. Common sense sets in. Yakov _never_ changes their travel plans like this. He is careful not to needlessly exhaust his skaters. Leaving tonight would almost certainly guarantee that Yuri would need an extra day or two of recuperation in Russia, and that would take away from practice time right before the Grand Prix Final.

So why has he changed the flight?

“I don’t understand,” Yuri practically squeaks, as if his body is already preparing for some terrible news before his mind has consciously thought about it.

“Well…” Yakov had been looking everywhere but Yuri’s face, but now he meets his eyes. “Yura, it’s your grandpa.”

Yuri freezes. His breath catches in his chest and he can’t blink. He wouldn’t be surprised if his heart stops.

Yakov keeps going, as if he won’t get the rest out if he doesn’t say it now. “He passed away.”

There’s a moment of incomprehension, and then Yuri’s blood turns to ice. He feels like the seat of the car falls out from underneath him and he is falling. He isn’t even sure whether he’s still looking at Yakov. He can’t really tell _what_ he was seeing, so he clenches his eyes shut.

Yakov is saying something, but it all sounds muffled. Yuri feels strong arms encircle his shoulders. He expects Yakov is hugging him, but awkwardly, since they’re in a car. If Yakov is trying to comfort him, it doesn’t work. Yuri’s body is pulling tight like a rubber band, and Yakov’s touch does nothing to relieve the tension. If anything, it pushes him closer to snapping.

 _My grandpa… what…_ He’s not thinking, and somehow, simultaneously thinking too much. Whenever a word or an idea takes shape, it brings pain, and Yuri’s not entirely sure why.

Suddenly, he starts seeing stars against his pitch black eyelids, and realizes he’s been holding his breath for several seconds. As he gasps for air, red hot fire fills his muscles and he wrenches his eyes open. He feels overly jittery, like a skittish animal ensnared in a trap.

He has to get out of this car. He _has_ to get out of this car.

He wrenches away from Yakov’s grip and practically plasters his face to the window of the cab. To his mild relief, he sees they’re about to pull into the hotel.

Yakov is calling his name, putting his hand on Yuri’s shoulder to steady him, but Yuri is jumpy and can’t sit still. The minute the cab comes to a stop, Yuri grasps for the lever and lunges out. He doesn’t bother to close the door behind him. Somewhere in his jumbled mess of not-thoughts, he’s aware Yakov has to pay the cab driver. That’s his opportunity to escape.

He doesn’t anticipate Yuuri and Victor would be waiting for him in the lobby.

Yuri is running to the elevators (or maybe the stairs. Would the stairs be better? Where is he going, anyway?) when out of nowhere, a flash of silver interrupts his line of sight. Victor’s body is lithe, but it can hold its ground stubbornly. It feels like Yuri is running into a wall. He topples backwards onto the tile of the lobby floor. Years of falling on the ice has trained his body to roll and he manages to avoid hitting his head.

“Oops,” comes Victor’s familiar voice. “Sorry, Yurio.” He offers Yuri a hand, but Yuri doesn’t move to take it. He just sits up and grips his head in his hands.

“Yurio?” Victor says, concerned.

Finally, Yuri manages to choke out a word between gasps. “M- my heart…” It’s racing wildly, in a way it never has in competition. This isn’t physical exertion. Physical exertion isn’t scary. Not like this.

And suddenly Yuuri is by his side, kneeling on the ground with him. “He’s having a panic attack.” Something about Yuuri’s voice demands Yuri’s attention. Maybe it’s how steady Yuuri sounds in this moment. Like he knows with certainty what to do when no one else in the world can give him any direction. Yuri struggles to focus on Yuuri’s face, but his vision is swimming. “Victor,” Yuuri commands. “Go get a glass of water. Actually, two.”

Yuri finally finds Yuuri’s brown eyes and feels one of Yuuri’s hands go to his arm. “Listen to me, Yuri,” he says. “I want you to breathe with me. Just like this, okay?” Yuuri starts breathing in and out slowly. But for every one of Yuuri’s breaths, Yuri is gasping at least five times.

“I…c-can’t…”

“Yes you can,” Yuuri insists. “Tell your body it can calm down now.” When Yuri keeps gasping, Yuuri says firmly, “Say it. Say ‘I can calm down now. I’m safe.’”

With a little more prompting, Yuri slowly manages to repeat him.

“That’s it,” Yuuri smiles, and his praise seems like the most important thing right now. “Now keep thinking that, and breathe with me.”

Yuri watches Yuuri carefully, tries to match his breathing. _I can calm down now. I’m safe._ It seems like a few hours, but is probably only a few minutes, before the ground slowly stops spinning and the lights stop being so painfully bright. Dimly, Yuri can hear Yakov talking to someone in the background. Probably someone from the hotel, wondering why some crazy kid is hyperventilating on the floor of her lobby.

Yuuri must have noticed his attention drifting, because he snaps in his face. “Don’t worry about them,” he says. “Keep your eyes on me. What did I tell you?”

“I can calm down now,” Yuri whispers breathlessly. He isn’t gasping out of control anymore, but panting as if he’s just finished a skating routine. “I’m safe.”

“That’s right.” Yuuri nods. “You’re in control of the situation. Make your breathing like mine.”

Slowly, the electricity trickles out of Yuri’s limbs and he feels exhausted. He looks around for Victor. “Can I have some water now?” Victor glances at Yuuri, who nods, then hands him a tiny paper cup. Yuri downs it in two gulps, then demands the second one. Victor takes both the cups from him as Yuuri stands up, then they both offer Yuri a hand. He takes them, not quite trusting his legs yet.

It’s kind of a funny feeling, he realizes numbly. He spends his life commanding his limbs, exercising the tightest amount of control to push his limits without going overboard. It’s new, for his body to betray him. He doesn’t like it.

Yakov mutters something to Victor. Yuuri listens, then turns to Yuri. “Yurio, we have to go soon. Do you need help packing up your room?”

Feeling a bit embarrassed, and determinedly not thinking about anything that just happened, Yuri briefly wants to tell him to shove off, just to try and save face. But for once his vulnerable side wins out, and he just averts his eyes and nods self-consciously.

 

* * *

 

Somewhere between the hotel and the airport, Yuri forces himself to get a grip. The panic attack was one of the most humiliating things that has ever happened to him. And for Yakov and Victor and Yuuri to witness that level of fragility… he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to look back on this incident without blood rushing to his face. It cannot happen again.

So Yuri makes the decision to avoid thinking about The Thing, the news that Yakov told him, as much as he can. There is a pain in his chest and he feels devastated, but as long as he doesn’t directly think about The Thing, he can keep his sorrow from pouring out physically.

He cried in front of the whole world when he won the Grand Prix series last year, but that feels different somehow. Last year, it was a release of emotion in a moment of triumph. Now, he just feels weak. So he’s made up his mind. His friends may have seen him panic, but they will not see him cry.

When he and Yakov make it to their gate that night, Yuri catches sight of Yuuri and Victor already waiting there. He’s relieved when he feels a tad bit annoyed at the two of them. It’s a familiar feeling, being annoyed. Easier than anything else he has felt today. So he grasps at it and feeds it until it becomes full-on anger.

“What the hell are those two morons doing here?” he snaps at Yakov. Yuri is pleased to hear his normal venom embedded in the phrase. Everything is the same. Nothing has changed.

“They changed their flight to come with us to Moscow.” There is a tiny bit of tenderness in Yakov’s voice. Yuri’s not pleased. His coach should be gruff and irritable, like he always is. “They’re here to support you, Yurochka.”

Yuri’s heart falters at the nickname. Even though his fans call him that periodically, there’s only one man who uses it in such an affectionate way and now… nope, he’s too close to thinking about The Thing. Power through. Be angry.

“That’s stupid. I don’t need them.” Yuri glowers at the couple to prove his point.

As they approach, Victor notices them and elbows Yuuri. They both stand up and Yuuri immediately moves to grasp Yuri by the shoulders.

“Are you doing okay, Yurio?” he asks. Yuri sees his eyes glisten. Somehow, the commanding presence that had come over Yuuri at the hotel has dissolved. He’s back to his normal, blubbery, emotional self.

“I’m fine. Don’t touch me.” He jerks himself from Yuuri’s grip. “And don’t cry. He wasn’t your grandpa.” If he spits out the words, they don’t hurt him as much. Yuri files that revelation away for the future.

Yuuri shoots Victor a troubled look and Victor changes the subject. “Guess what, Yurio!” he says cheerfully. _Overly_ cheerfully, and that’s saying something, for Victor. Yuri finds him roughly 87 times more annoying than normal, so he shoots Victor a glare.

“What?”

“I upgraded us all to first class!”

Yakov startles. “Vitya, on this long flight? It’s too expensive!”

“Nonsense.” Victor beams. “It’s much more comfortable.”

Yakov nudges Yuri. “Say ‘thank you,’ Yuri.”

 _For what?_ Yuri wonders idly. _He did it out of obligation. I’m not stupid._ “Whatever. Thanks, I guess.” He shoves his hands in the pockets of his hoodie and purposely doesn’t make eye contact with Victor.

Yakov looks ready to scold him, but Yuuri is quick to diffuse the situation. “It’s fine!” he says, waving his hands. “Victor mostly used points, anyway.”

Yuri slumps into a chair and puts one foot on his suitcase. This conversation isn’t doing enough to distract him. Already, his anger is dying down and something far more dangerous is waiting to replace it. He whips out his earbuds before his mind has a chance to run off.

But Yakov isn’t going to let him bow out just yet. “Yuuri and Victor are coming because I don’t know how long I’m going to be able to stay in Moscow,” he explains as he sits down next to Yuri. His voice has taken on that awkward gentle quality again. It really doesn’t suit Yakov. “Mila made it to the Grand Prix Final. I might have to get back to work with her, but we’ll see.”

That hag made it all the way, too? Yuri rolls his eyes. “Then just head straight to St. Petersburg, and take these idiots with you. They need the training even more than Mila.” He pulls his hoodie up over his head to block out Yakov in his peripheral.

“We’re not going to do that, Yurio.” Victor’s voice loses its cheeriness. Now he’s calm and firm.

Yuri draws his hand to the front of his hood and tugs it down over his eyes. He’s too tired to argue anymore. “Whatever,” he says again.

 

* * *

 

It isn’t even halfway through the flight and Yuri isn’t doing too well.

Despite the roomy first class seat, he feels stifled. He’s already listened to his three favorite albums on his phone. When the fasten seatbelt sign had been turned off, he hopped right up and has used the bathroom three times since, just to have something to do. He hates sitting around, staring at the TV screen in front of him. Finally, Yakov had yelled at him to stay down, that he would bother the other passengers if he kept getting up.

Why don’t planes have places to just stand? Maybe next time Victor could charter a private airplane just for him. Yuri smirks at the thought.

Drumming his fingers against the armrest, he looks out the window, but there isn’t much to see. A sprinkling of stars above, nothing below. Maybe ocean, but he can’t tell. The moon isn’t even out tonight. The cabin’s interior lights are dim as well, illuminating the center aisle with only a dark blue glow.

Yakov’s asleep in the seat next to him. Yuuri and Victor are sleeping across the aisle. Earlier, Yuuri had asked him gently who he wanted to sit by. He was trying to be nice, Yuri supposes, but it just came off as pandering. The choice had been easy enough, though. Yuuri had been handling him like a delicate piece of china since the hotel, and Victor was even more obnoxious than normal. It wasn’t hard to choose Yakov, the least chatty of all of them.

Now, though, Yuri finds himself with nothing to distract him and his thoughts turn depressing against his will. He’s not looking forward to the next couple of days. He’s realized already, of course, that his adult family members will be stepping in to help with funeral arrangements. That means his terrible Uncle Andrei, who’s frequently criticized Yuri’s grandpa for the way he was raising Yuri. Yuri always ends up yelling at Uncle Andrei whenever the two of them were in the same room.

And, naturally, his mother would be there, a bottle of vodka in tow, and maybe a new boyfriend. Yuri wonders if she will be drinking even more because of The Thing, or whether the alcohol has pushed her beyond the point of caring. He hasn’t seen her in two years, at least. She used to swing by Yuri’s grandpa’s apartment when he was there between skating seasons, but the last few years had brought a myriad of excuses and canceled plans. It had been fine by Yuri, really.

It occurs to Yuri, hits him like a brick, that he won’t be returning to his grandpa’s apartment in Moscow after Worlds this year, like he always has. Where would he go, then? Would he be allowed to stay in St. Petersburg? When he turned sixteen, Yakov had helped him find a small apartment there, to afford them both a little more privacy during the skating season. “After Victor’s teenage years,” Yakov had said as they moved Yuri out of his house, “never again.”

But the apartment is walking distance from Yakov’s place, so Yuri is still under his watchful eye. It had been made clear that the apartment was only so Yuri could have a little space. Yakov still makes the rules, and checks in with him regularly. With a small gasp, Yuri realizes that he doesn’t know who his legal guardian is now. Yakov may have authority over Yuri when he’s in St. Petersburg, but it’s a far cry from guardianship.

He’ll have to go back to his mother. He’ll have to look the other way when she’s drunk by noon, make himself scarce when the alcohol hits her the wrong way so she doesn’t start screaming at him. He had left that life behind and never looked back, but the thought of returning, even for a few months between skating seasons, is enough to make his hands shake.

No. He clenches them into fists. _I’m not going to fall apart again,_ he thinks. _I’ll do whatever it takes. I’ll even volunteer to teach those stupid brats at Yakov’s summer camp. But I will not go back to Moscow after this._ Since he knows it isn’t really up to him, the words bring little comfort, but he’s at least able to get a grip on his emotions again.

He takes his mother, takes his stress, takes The Thing and pushes them away, into a tiny corner far, far in the back of his mind and builds a wall to keep them hidden.

He inhales deeply and arranges his face to a steely glare. If he looks tough on the outside, he can be tough on the inside.

Yuri jams his earbuds back into his ears and turns up the volume until he can’t hear himself think anymore.


	3. Friday

When the four finally trudge into the hotel, Yuuri and Victor excuse themselves to rest before they meet up with Yuri’s family. Yuuri has dark circles under his eyes and Victor’s hair looks particularly deflated. Yuri humphs as he watches them disappear down the hallway. It’s mid-day in Russia. They were never going to get over their jetlag if they slept the rest of the day away. Besides, he watched them both sleep the whole plane ride. What are they so tired for?

Yuri turns to complain to Yakov, who is talking to someone on the phone as he opens the door to their room. Yuri finds that Yakov looks as exhausted as Victor and Yuuri. He scoffs inwardly. Adults are such wimps.

Yakov lets Yuri into their hotel room and closes the door so he can finish his conversation in the hall. Yuri folds himself into the lone armchair in the room. He scowls at double beds, disgusted that he has to share a room with his coach. Yuri always stays in his own room during competitions, but Yakov, Yuuri, and Victor have made it clear that they don’t want him to be alone right now. Like he can’t take care of himself.

Yuri opens up his Instagram and is bombarded with notifications. His fans have caught wind of this, somehow. Yuri considers googling himself to see if an official story broke, but quickly changes his mind. He may end up finding more information than he’s willing to handle. An article might have a picture, or information about how The Thing happened. He’s pointedly ignoring things like that for now.

He closes Instagram, ignoring his notifications, and opens up his email. Here, messages from his friends and fellow skaters have started to arrive. He numbly scrolls past most of them, only glancing at the subject lines and the senders. He catches one from Otabek and opens it.

 _Yuri,_  
_Call me when you can._  
_-O_

That’s it. Yuri doesn’t know what he expected.

He tries to calculate the time change and realizes he has no clue if Otabek is still in New York or not. He might on a plane right now. Yuri lifts his phone to text him and ask, but Yakov chooses that moment to barge in the door.

“I’ve spoken to your mother,” he says, and Yuri instantly gets a bad taste in his mouth. “She’ll be at the apartment soon, but I’ve told her we’re going to rest first.”

Yuri rolls his eyes and doesn’t say anything.

“Are you tired, Yura?”

“No.”

“Did you sleep on the plane?”

_“Nyet.”_

Yakov gets a stern look on his face. “You have to get some rest. Lie down.”

Yuri begrudgingly complies, but takes his phone with him. He stays on top of the covers.

Yakov putters around, moving things out of his suitcase and messing things up in the bathroom. Yuri looks at nothing in particular on the internet, anything to occupy his eyes. Finally, Yakov gets settled in bed and turns off the light. It’s quiet for a moment, and then—

“Get off your phone, Yuri.”

“I will,” he says, even though he has no intentions to.

To his surprise, Yakov doesn’t push the issue. After playing a few cell phone games, Yuri realizes he never texted Otabek.

 _I’m fine. In Moscow,_ he types.

Less than a minute later, his phone vibrates. Otabek is calling him. Yakov is just beginning to snore, so Yuri sneaks off to the bathroom. He sits on the floor, leans against the tub, and answers.

“Hey, Beka,” he says softly, so as not to wake up Yakov.

 _“Yuri.”_ The familiarity of his voice is almost enough to make Yuri spill all his thoughts and feelings right there in the bathroom. Yuri pulls the phone away so he can clear his throat, forcing the emotion back down. _“You there?”_

He takes one more deep breath and brings the phone back to his ear. “Yeah, sorry.”

 _“Don’t be.”_ There’s an awkward silence. _“I’m sorry I couldn’t see you before you left. By the time I heard, your flight had taken off.”_

“It’s okay.” When Otabek doesn’t say anything, Yuri adds, “Victor and Katsuki are here, so…”

Otabek snorts. _“And how are they?”_

One side of Yuri’s mouth perks up into an almost-smile and he slouches further against the tub, settling in. “Terrible. Vitya is constantly trying to cheer me up and Katsudon looks like he’s going to cry at any moment. It’s pathetic.” It’s relieving to slip some arrogance into his words. It makes him feel slightly more in control than he actually is.

Otabek’s chuckle rings through the phone. _“Sounds about right.”_ Then, after a pause, _“How are you?”_

Yuri frowns. “I’m fine.”

_“Do you want me to come out there?”_

“No!” Yuri says at once. “You can’t. The Grand Prix Final is in, like, ten days!”

_“So? Victor and Yuuri are there.”_

“Victor and Yuuri are idiots.”

There’s another pause. _“Are you still coming to the Grand Prix Final?”_

“What?” Yuri almost yells, then remembers Yakov. He lowers his voice, but keeps the intensity. “Of course! Why would you say that?”

_“I don’t know. People are speculating. And I don’t know how much time you’ll have to train.”_

“The idiots are here too, cutting into their training time. Is anyone speculating about them?”

_“No, but they haven’t had a death in the family.”_

A grimace spreads across Yuri’s face, but he ignores it and answers quickly. “Don’t worry about my training. I’ll be at the Grand Prix Final and I’ll wipe the floor with all of you.” Although now he’s questioning what exactly will happen. Up until now, Yuri has only been trying to survive hour by hour. Looking a week and a half ahead seems… unimaginable.

_“Seriously, though, are you doing okay?”_

Yuri sighs and sinks all the way to the ground, placing his phone between his cheek and the floor. “You sound like Katsudon.”

_“It’s a pretty normal thing to ask when somebody loses someone.”_

There’s a dull ache in Yuri’s chest as he says this. Otabek is talking about The Thing too much and Yuri turns defensive. “I said I was fine!”

_“Okay, okay. I get it. We can talk about something else.”_

Yuri is grateful. They talk about Skate America and discuss whether they should plan an exhibition skate together for the Grand Prix Final, like last year. When the weight in Yuri’s chest starts to subside, it’s replaced with weariness. He feels his eyes start to slide closed when Otabek finally excuses himself so he can get ready for his flight.

 _“And Yuri?”_ he says before hanging up. _“I know you think Victor and Yuuri are smothering you, but… they just want to help you.”_

“I know.”

_“So… maybe try and let them.”_

Yuri rolls his eyes. _“Da.”_

Otabek doesn’t sound too convinced, but they hang up anyway. Yuri pulls his phone out from under his face and looks at the time, but the numbers don’t register. He’s feeling strangely numb.

The coolness of the tile presses against his cheek and his hair spreads on the floor around him. If Mila could see him now, curled up on the floor of a hotel bathroom, she would give him a repulsed look and a lecture. The image should be funny, but he doesn’t feel like laughing. He just stares blankly at the pipes beneath the sink.

 

* * *

 

Yakov finds Yuri on the bathroom floor about an hour later. It takes a bit of shaking to rouse him, but Yakov is far more gentle than Yuri remembers. Then again, the last time Yakov had to wake him up was when Yuri lived with him and they had to be at the rink for early-morning training. Circumstances are a little different today.

Yakov helps Yuri to his feet and instructs him to clean himself up before they leave. Blearily, Yuri looks at his reflection in the mirror. His hair is a mess, achieving a level of volume that no product could tame. His eyes are rimmed with red and he swears his skin has a pale gray sheen to it.

He turns to Yakov and mumbles, “Maybe a shower.”

The hot water is usually invigorating to him, but today it only adds to his exhaustion. He feels warm and sleepy. Somehow, though, his body takes over and goes through the motions of showering and dressing without Yuri really thinking about it. When he emerges from the bathroom, Yakov sends him right back in to dry his hair. _Probably a good idea,_ Yuri reasons dully. It’s November in Russia.

The hair dryer feels heavier than usual and Yuri keeps switching hands as his arms tire. He internally jeers at himself. He can normally skate rigorous routines all day and now he can’t even manage a hair dryer?

The second time Yuri leaves the bathroom, Yakov starts shoving various pieces of warm clothing into his hands. Yuri puts them on without really registering. Boots. A scarf. A thick coat, fur lining the hood. Yuri supposes it’s for the best, but all it seems to do is add to his sluggishness. He lets Yakov lead him out the door and toward the hotel lobby.

Victor and Yuuri have a cab waiting for them. Yakov climbs into the front seat and Yuri is sandwiched in the back between the two lovebirds. As he looks out the front windshield, he can feel Yuuri’s eyes drilling into the side of his head, as if staring hard enough could expose Yuri’s thoughts. He tries to summon the will to glare back, but he just feels tired. He spends the cab ride in silence.

When he steps out of the cab, the biting Russian air coupled with the sight of his grandfather’s apartment finally wakes him up. He scowls up at the gray stone, as if trying to intimidate the building. _Go on,_ he thinks stubbornly. _Just try to break me._

Yuuri’s voice floats out of the cab as he scoots over to join Victor on the curb. “I’ve never met Yurio’s family before.”

When Victor offers Yuuri his hand and pulls him from the car, Yuri turns to give him a smirk. “Then you’ve been lucky up ‘till now.”

Yuuri looks at Victor imploringly. Victor shrugs one shoulder. “Yeah, kinda.”

Yuri wheels around and begins the familiar march to his old home.

 

* * *

 

When Yuri opens up the door, he is not surprised to see his mother sitting at the small round kitchen table, nursing a drink. He is surprised at what she was drinking.

“Grandpa’s favorite whiskey?” he wonders aloud, making his way to the table and picking up the half-full bottle. “Huh. That’s new.” His eyes dart around the kitchen, taking in the open liquor cabinet and finally the empty bottle of vodka on the counter. Ah, she ran out. That makes more sense.

A clumsy hand falls on his as his mother wrenches the bottle back from his grip. “Yuri,” she greets him, topping off her drink.

“Mother.”

She peers at him. “You need a haircut.”

Yuri rolls his eyes and walks away.

Yakov steps in. “Irena, so nice to see you.” He shakes her hand. His arm is strong, and hers flops like a dead fish.

“Yakov. I see you’re letting my son do whatever he wants. His head looks like a mop.”

Yakov gives her a tight smile. “I assure you, Irena, it did not hinder his ability to win gold at the Grand Prix Final last year, so his hair is of little concern to me.”

Yuri, stripping off his jacket, feels a little swell of satisfaction. He wipes it from his face before turning back to them. “Mom, this is Katsuki Yuuri. And you remember Victor.”

Irena’s face lights up and she stands for the first time since they walked in. “Of course. Vitya, how have you been?” She sloppily tries to throw her arms around Victor. Yuri seethes when she calls Victor by his nickname.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Irena,” Victor says amicably while he fends of her advances, “But might I suggest Yuri may deserve your attention before me?”

“ _Da_ , shouldn’t you be hugging your own son, you hag?” Yuri says sarcastically, folding his arms. He almost laughs at his mother’s vain attempts at Victor. “Besides, don’t you have a boyfriend?” Since he hasn’t spoken to her in years, he’s not sure about this, but it’s a safe bet.

Irena’s face crumbles and she collapses back into her chair. “Dmitri left me,” she wails. “Some _devka_ from Samara. I cried for days.”

She downs the last of her drink and Yuri wonders how long she would cry for the loss of her father. He glances at Yuuri, who is looking at him with a mix of disbelief and pity. _That’s right, Katsudon,_ Yuri thinks. _Not all of us had fluffy little dogs in our childhoods._

Remembering Otabek’s words earlier, Yuri looks down, a little ashamed to have thought it. Otabek was right. Yuuri is only here to help.

A voice floats in from down the hall. “Who the hell are you talking to, Irena?”

Yuri grits his teeth. As the hulking figure of his uncle appears, he introduces him. “Everyone, my Uncle Andrei.”

“Ah, Yuri,” his uncle says, entering the kitchen. He leans against the counter and seems to dominate the room. He crosses his arms. “Where have you been? Last I checked, it doesn’t take an entire day to get from St. Petersburg to Moscow.”

“I was in New York.”

Uncle Andrei blinks. “New York? Irena, you said he was in St. Petersburg.”

“How should I know?”

“Typical.” Uncle Andrei looks at the ceiling and shakes his head. “It was just like Dad, to let a fourteen-year-old travel who-knows-where, alone, without even telling his mother…”

Yuri’s mother hiccups. “He’s fifteen.”

Hot, angry blood is coursing through his body, mostly at Uncle Andrei’s words about Yuri’s grandpa. He takes a deep breath, trying not to explode. Uncle Andrei would have a field day. “Sixteen, Mom. I turned sixteen in March.”

His mother only looks confused.

“And he wasn’t alone,” Victor cuts in. “We were all there with him.”

Uncle Andrei’s gaze snaps to Victor, to his iconic haircut and expensive outfit. “What, was it some figure skating thing?”

He’s being ignorant on purpose, Yuri knows, to discredit his career. He doesn’t have time to answer, though, before his mother shoots to her feet, immediately twice as cognizant as she was a minute ago.

“Figure skating? Did you win, honey? Was there prize money?”

Disgust rises in the back of Yuri’s throat like bile. He averts his eyes from Yuuri and Victor’s gazes and says quietly, “No. You’ll have to wait until the first. Like always.” He had long since changed his number to avoid her begging phone calls once a week. These days, the only way he knows his mother is still alive is by watching her quickly drain the account he set up for her and contributes to every month.

He really didn’t want Victor and Yuuri to know about that.

“But Yuri,” she pleads. “I need it. My father died.”

Something wrenches deep in Yuri’s chest and he glances away, breath hitching.

Uncle Andrei seems to notice his weakness. “It wouldn’t kill you to pitch in for funeral expenses.”

 _Distract from the pain. Get angry._ He spins to face his uncle. “Don’t try to guilt me. I know he had life insurance.”

Uncle Andrei smiles triumphantly. “You see, Irena? You see what our father has done to your son? He refuses to help his family. Such an insolent brat.”

Yuri’s breathing hard, furious. He opens his mouth to respond, but he’s cut off by Yakov.

“That’s enough.” Yakov doesn’t yell, but somehow his voice still thunders in the little apartment. “We didn’t come here so you can insult a teenager to make yourself feel important, and we certainly didn’t come so you could ask him for money. We came to get information about the funeral and help you sort through Nikolai’s effects. So, if you please?”

Andrei looks indignant, like he’s ready to rise to Yakov’s challenge. But his eyes fall on Yuuri and Victor, who are standing tense at Yuri’s sides, and he backs down. Yuri feels a small surge of pride at their solidarity. It almost makes him feel better until he remembers that Yakov, Yuuri, and Victor won’t be around to stick up for him forever.

Crossing his arms, Andrei answers Yakov. “The funeral will be on Monday.” He scowls at the group. “I’ve been running around all day making preparations, and since I don’t anticipate my sister being of much use tonight…” He glances at Irena, who is swaying even though she’s sitting back down in her chair. “I was going to start cleaning the apartment in the morning.”

Yakov’s next words come out polite enough, but he never breaks eye contact with Yuri’s uncle. “Perfect. We’ll be here at nine. Come, Yuri.”

Victor curls an arm around Yuri’s shoulders and leads him out of the apartment. Behind them, Yuuri gathers up the pile of everyone’s coats and follows. Yakov brings up the rear and shuts the door firmly. Victor doesn’t stop and let Yuri bundle up until they are about to exit the apartment complex.

“Well,” says Victor when they’re all inside the warm cab, “That escalated quickly.”

Yuuri’s leg bounces against Yuri’s in the cramped backseat. “Those people,” Yuuri mutters. There’s a darkness in his voice that Yuri’s never heard before. “I’m sorry, I know they’re your family, but…”

“I know,” Yuri says, then releases a string of Russian that has Victor clamping a hand over his mouth and Yakov apologizing to the cab driver.

When the Russians in the car finally quiet down and Yuri pushes Victor away, Yuuri speaks with finality in his voice. “We’ll just avoid them and work on the apartment as quickly as possible.”

 _“Da,”_ Yuri says, “the sooner, the better.”

It’s quiet for a moment, and Yuri tries to temper his anger a little.

Yakov is rearranging his schedule on his phone. “Monday… Three days away. That means we won’t be back in St. Petersburg until Tuesday.” He turns around to face the three skaters with a focused look. “That will only be a week before the Grand Prix Final.” He twists further to study each of their faces in turn. “Can you boys do it?”

Yuri slumps in his seat and crosses his arms. “You can leave anytime you want,” he mutters. “You don’t have to stay for the funeral.” He was going for nonchalance, but his heart isn’t in it and the words just come out in a mumble. Everyone ignores him.

Victor taps his chin. “If we work hard on the apartment in the mornings, we can get some time in at the rink in the afternoons.”

Yakov nods. “I’ll call in a few favors, see if I can get some private time booked last minute.”

“Will Mila be okay?” Yuuri asks. With Yakov was here in Moscow, Yuri was essentially robbing Mila of her coach a week before competition.

Yakov waves the question off. “Lilia can step in until I get back. I can video chat with them, too.”

“Then I don’t see a problem,” Yuuri says.

When Yakov’s gaze falls on him, Yuri shrugs. “Works for me.”

It’ll feel good to get back on the ice.

 

* * *

 

By all accounts, Yuri should be asleep right now.

Yakov forced him into bed hours ago. The last time Yuri truly got some sleep was the night before his free skate, and since then he’s performed in front of thousands of people, won a gold medal, heard about The Thing, flew halfway around the world, and reunited with his mother. He doesn’t count that barely-even-an-hour he spent zoned out on the bathroom floor earlier today.

But somehow, inexplicably, he feels restless. If his mind calms down, his legs itch for movement. When his body stills, his mind runs.

So that’s why the light of Yuri’s cell phone screen is illuminating the room in striking blue light. Yakov, snoring in the other bed, is undisturbed.

Yuri itches to get on Instagram or Twitter or _something_ , but all his social media platforms are flooded with well-wishes right now. He supposes in a way he’s touched that so many people are reaching out, but he really doesn’t want to face the messages right now. He complained about it a few hours ago, when they were at dinner, so Victor sent out a tweet for him.

_**@v-nikiforov** As some of you may know @yuri-plisetsky recently lost his grandpa. We thank you for your support and ask you to respect his privacy during this tough time._

Yuuri retweeted it and so did several other skaters and several hundred fans. Unfortunately, all it did was increase awareness about the situation, and Yuri is getting more notifications than ever. Yuri doesn’t know what Victor was expecting. His Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter apps all have little red bubbles with ‘99+’ on them. And he doesn’t dare check his email.

Yuri glances at the clock. It’s past midnight. All his little fiddly cell phone games aren’t doing much to pass the time. Or keep his mind off things. Yuri sighs and puts his phone down next to his head, watching until the screen goes dark. Maybe he’ll be able to sleep if he tries again.

Unfortunately, now his body is twitchy _and_ his mind is busy. It shouldn’t come as a surprise, really. This is the first time he’s left alone with only his thoughts and nothing to distract him.

His mother looked like crap today. Obviously, she hasn’t sobered up since he last saw her. Her hair, once golden blonde like his, was now a dingy gray. Her eyes were sunken in. Yuri wonders idly if she has branched out into other substances yet.

He never intends to worry about his mom. Most of the time it’s easy. Whenever she comes to his mind, he thinks mean things about her, writes her off, convinces himself he’s already accomplished more than she ever will. There’s not a single aspect of his life that would be better with her in it.

But still… she’s his _mom_.

Tired, his mind drifts out of his control and brings him to one of his first memories. He’s tiny, no older than four, waking up from a nap to the sounds of broken glass. He leaves his room to look for his mother and finds her semi-conscious, slumped over the kitchen table. The glass of… whatever she was drinking… has slipped out of her hand onto the floor.

He remembers what she’d told him in the past about the dangers of broken glass and stops in the doorway. He calls to her, his small voice bringing her back to her senses. She looks at him, looks at the broken glass, and instantly angers. Yuri doesn’t remember now what she said to him, but his four-year-old self knows she blames him for the mess, even though he’s all the way on the other side of the room. He remembers being scared and crying. Suddenly his grandfather is picking him up from behind.

Yuri doesn’t know why his grandfather came over to their house at that moment, but he yells at his daughter and takes Yuri to his room. He checks his bare feet for cuts before firmly telling him to stay put, shutting the door softly when he exits. Yuri buries himself under his covers and throws his hands over his ears as his grandfather argues loudly with his mother. The next thing he knows, his grandpa is back, shoving clothes into Yuri’s tiny blue schoolbag.

“Come, Yurochka,” he says, gathering Yuri’s tiny form easily in his arms. Yuri’s mother is still yelling when they leave the apartment.

Now, Yuri bolts upright, gasping. He’s not sure when the memory turned into a dream, but he’s awake and panting now. His mother’s screams and his grandfather’s gentle voice clash against each other in his head. He rakes his hands through his hair.

It’s like the past is mocking him about his future. His terribly incompetent mother, from whom he escaped once and is now doomed to return to. The one comforting presence, looking out for him since childhood, who is now absent…

No. It’s too much. He can’t think about it. He pushes the memory back behind the wall in his mind.

 _I am in control of this,_ he tells himself fiercely. _This cannot touch me._

To his surprise, it seems to work. He feels his heartbeat steady and his breathing even out.

He’s present in the hotel room once again. Yakov is still snoring, the clock casts red light into the room. 2:15.

Yuri gets up, uses the restroom. Wipes his sweaty face with a washcloth. Gets himself a drink before heading back to bed.

He looks at the clock again. 2:21. He plays a game on his phone for another ten minutes, then texts Otabek. Yuri knows Otabek’s alarm rings at 5:30 every day to get in a workout at the gym before he trains. Kazakhstan is three hours ahead of Russia, so he should be getting up soon.

_**YP:** Morning_

The reply comes at once. Beka is probably not even out of bed yet.

 _ **OA:** What are you doing up_  
_**YP:** Cant sleep_  
_**OA:** Y not_  
_**YP:** I dunno. Just cant_  
_**OA:** You’re crazy. Go back to bed_  
_**YP:** Nooooo text me_  
_**OA:** I have to work out. Text me later_

Yuri scowls and sends another few messages, just to pester him, but Otabek doesn’t answer. Frustrated, Yuri puts the phone down and tries to take Otabek’s advice.


	4. Saturday

Yuri finds himself back at the apartment far too soon, even though last night seemed to drag on forever. The few times he’d started to drift off, he’d hear his grandpa’s voice calling his name, and he’d be jolted awake. It was very jarring, and it sent adrenaline coursing through his body each time. Finally he’d given up on sleeping, searched for his earbuds, and watched a movie on his phone until Yakov said it was time to get up for the day.

He’d gladly do it all over again if it meant he didn’t have to be here right now.

He’s frozen in the doorway. The hustle and bustle behind him is almost nonexistent as he takes in his childhood bedroom. Just a few months ago, he had come home to visit, and relished in the comfort of this room. The sanctity of it all makes him reluctant to touch anything.

“You okay, Yurio?” Yuri turns to see Yuuri behind him, a stack of plates in his hands. He and Victor had been assigned the kitchen, while his mother and uncle were cleaning out their father’s room, a far more personal chore. Yuri hadn’t been able to convince himself to peek in before they started. It would make his grandfather’s absence too apparent.

Yakov had been busy with phone calls, and promised to meet them at the rink that afternoon.

For now, Yuri swallows down his emotion and manages to answer Yuuri normally. “Yeah. I just… I’ll start in a minute.” He silently congratulates himself that he was able to speak to Yuuri without snapping for once. Sure, it’s probably because he’s so exhausted, but still.

Yuuri looks like he wants to touch Yuri, pat him on the back or something, but with the plates in his arms, he can’t. Instead, he bumps his shoulder in a way that still feels comforting, and Yuri manages a small smile. “Take your time,” Yuuri says.

When he returns to the kitchen, Yuri considers closing the door and giving himself some privacy, but ultimately decides against it. He’s worried he may end up crying if he’s left alone. All he needs is for someone to check up on him and find him in tears. How humiliating. Especially if that someone is Yuuri. After how he treated him two years ago, when Yuri found him crying in a bathroom stall after the Grand Prix Final… it’d just remind him of what a jackass he could be sometimes, of what a jackass he’s been the last day or so.

No. The door should stay open. Yuri can power through this.

He looks around and tries to decide where to start. The walls are littered with band posters and drawings he made when he was a kid. His bed is decorated with old stuffed animals, clashing comically with the loud bedspread that screamed ‘teenager.’ The whole room had this problem, really. When he came home, he’d bring in new, cooler decorations, but he was never around long enough to clean out his old, little-kid things. It made the room into a comfortable mish-mash of both childish items and more mature ones.

He brings his empty trash bag to the closet, figuring it’s a pretty safe place to dive in. Most of the clothes in there are far too small. With his recent growth spurts, he’s lived out of his suitcase the last few times he was in Moscow.

For a while, it goes smoothly. Things either don’t fit or aren’t his style anymore. Every now and then, he finds a hat or a scarf that can still be used. He tosses them into a box that he’ll take to St. Petersburg.

As he works, he counts how many times his mother passes his doorway on her way to get another drink: three. He also counts how many times she stops in to check on him: zero.

Shortly after drink number four, the sibling bickering between his mother and his uncle escalates to shouting. They’re fighting over something, probably one of his grandfather’s few valuables, but Yuri doesn’t know what. _Might as well get used to this_ , a small, sinister voice tells him. _It’ll be your new normal._ He tells the voice to shut up.

Finally done with his closet, he rocks back on his heels and surveys his progress.

“Hey,” Victor says from the doorway. Yuri doesn’t have to look to know he’s smiling. “Good job, Yura. You got a lot done.” He stands next to him and slings an arm around his shoulders, looking down at the bulging trash bag.

“I guess.” They turn around to look at the rest of the room. Even though it’s untouched, there’s really not that much to do. Aside from the bed, which Yuuri is now perched on, there’s only a bedside table, a dresser, and an old toy box in the corner. Most of Yuri’s stuff is in his St. Petersburg apartment.

Yuuri cringes as something breaks in the neighboring room. The yelling gets louder. “Those two need to get their priorities straight,” he says. “They’re supposed to be looking for important paperwork, but they’re too busy splitting things up like some divorcing couple.”

Victor looks at Yuri. “If there’s anything of your grandfather’s that you really want, you should claim it soon.”

Yuri’s shaking his head before Victor’s even done saying the sentence. “I don’t want anything.”

Victor’s arm stiffens around Yuri’s shoulders, and he shoots a look at Yuuri, who shifts uncomfortably on the bed before he speaks. “Maybe you don’t now, but can you think of anything you may want later? Something that will remind you of him, to remember him by?”

They’re treading on fragile territory here. Yuri lets the cold, logical part of his brain take over, combing through sixteen years of memories to see what sticks out.

Obediently, his mind provides him with the image of sitting on his grandfather’s lap on New Year's Eve, a storybook big enough to completely cover Yuri’s legs spread out in front of them. Beside the fireplace, Yuri’s grandfather would read story after story to him until Yuri fell asleep. Back then, he never quite made it to midnight.

Yuri knows the storybook has been lost for years, but he can still remember the way his grandfather would blow smoke rings from his pipe between stories, the smell of the tobacco mingling with the smoke from the crackling fireplace.

Satisfied to have an answer to give Yuuri, he suppresses the memory back down before he thinks about it too hard. He looks up at Victor and says, “Maybe his pipe?”

Victor nods. “Easy enough.” He releases Yuri and disappears into the hallway. The yelling in the other room reluctantly subsides when Victor interrupts. Yuri guesses that Victor had closed the door behind him, because the words are now too muffled to understand.

There’s no mistaking the fury in his relatives’ voices just a few moments later, though. He and Yuuri exchange a curious look and listen as Victor’s voice raises and becomes firm.

They’re still yelling a few minutes later, when Victor stops just outside Yuri’s doorway, a polished mahogany box him his hand. He shoots the two an annoyed look. “You ready to go?”

Yuuri stands up quickly. “What was that all about?”

Victor rolls his eyes at Yuuri. “Apparently the stem of the pipe is real ivory.” He hands the box to Yuri and gives him a tender smile. “We negotiated.”

“’Negotiated?’” Yuuri asks suspiciously.

“Okay, well, they tried to negotiate, and I threatened to sue.”

“Victor…” Yuuri sighs, exasperated.

Yuri gazes down at the box, runs his fingers over the lid, inscribed with his grandfather’s initials. He can’t bring himself to open it, maybe won’t for a long time. But he looks up at Victor and says, “Thanks.”

 

* * *

 

No matter how hard Yuri concentrates, he can’t complete a single runthrough of his routines. His quads turn to triples. His step sequences are sloppy. He trips over his own feet. He hasn’t suffered from such clumsiness since his novice days, when skating was just turning from hobby to career.

The more he fails, the more frustrated he gets, and the more he messes up. Forget about improving his performance score— he can’t even manage the technical aspects. Meanwhile, Yuuri oozes grace on the other side of the rink and Victor lands quad after quad.

As he falls for the umpteenth time, Yuri realizes why Yuuri took sixth in the Grand Prix Final the day after his dog died. For the second time that day, he feels ashamed of his behavior in the bathroom back then.

Finally, Yakov suggests they call it a day. Good thing, because Yuri is sure if he stumbles one more time, he will turn his back on skating and never look back. He fumes as he leaves the ice. Everyone sees the scowl on his face and leaves him alone.

Luckily, the exhaustion makes it almost impossible to keep his bad mood for long. He doesn’t have the energy to be mean. He just wants to be left alone.

When Victor chooses a restaurant for dinner, Yuri orders the first thing he sees on the menu, not bothering to read through the whole thing. He hasn’t had an appetite in days, so it doesn’t really matter.

Yakov is studying him from across the table. For once, Yuuri and Victor have split up, with Victor sitting next to Yuri.

“I don’t think you should train tomorrow, Yurochka,” Yakov says.

No, not that nickname again! Yuri tries to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach when Yakov uses it. “What? Why not?”

“Today was not a quality practice. You won’t do yourself any favors if you push yourself when your heart’s not in it. It will only affect your confidence.”

Victor snorts into his water. “That’ll be the day,” he says, a small grin playing on his face.

A hush falls across the table long enough for Victor to realize his mistake. His hands fly up to his mouth in horror. “Oh, god, Yuri, I’m so sorry.”

Yuri balks at the disapproving look Yuuri’s giving Victor from across the table. “Stop that!” He commands both of them. “Don’t remind him that he’s supposed to be sad! He made a joke. It was funny. Don’t treat me like a little kid just because…” He trails off, unable to finish that sentence, which probably doesn’t help his case too much. “Just… try to act normal. This is killing me.”

He practically has to choke out that last part. It’s the first bit of truth he’s told the three adults so far. It’s not much, but he feels a little vulnerable anyway.

Unfortunately, his brief moment of weakness only adds to the delicate air at the table. Yuri glowers at all three of them to show that he’s unscathed, but the awkward moment drags on. He finally lands something to yell at them about, desperate to break this terrible sympathetic spell they’re all under. “Why are you all drinking water?”

If it was any other night, they would be enjoying some sort of alcohol. Wine for Victor, some local brew for Yakov, and Katsudon… actually, Yuri has no idea what Katsudon drinks when he’s not in Japan.

It’s yet another reminder that things aren’t okay. Yuri desperately wants things to be okay.

The three of them all look at their water glasses at once, almost comically. Yuuri’s the first one to look back at him. “Yurio,” he says tenderly, “we thought, with your mother…”

Yuri deepens his scowl. “I’ve seen you all drunk before. I’ve seen my mother drunk before. Somehow, I’ve survived. You’re not going to scar me for life if you have a drink with dinner.” When no one reacts, he pushes on. “I know the difference between having a drink because you want one and having one because you’re an alcoholic. Now order the damn drinks!”

He flags down a waitress so they don’t have a chance to argue with him. They reluctantly give in and order. A smug look crosses Victor’s face at the last minute and he orders Yuri some frou-frou virgin drink with a rhyming name.

Yuri does a double-take and commands the waitress, “No. Don’t bring that.”

Victor looks very pleased with himself as he tell her, “Yes. Absolutely bring it.”

The waitress laughs, a tinkling sound that’s contagious and encourages the rest of the table to join in. As she walks away, the tension slowly lifts. Especially when Yuri’s drink shows up with both a slice of pineapple _and_ a cherry.

Now that the others aren't tip-toeing around him, Yuri leans back in his seat and watches them converse easily amongst themselves. He answers a question or two when asked, but after his little angry adrenaline rush, he’s fine with just watching them talk.

When the food comes, he still doesn’t have an appetite. He takes a few bites, but mostly just pushes his food around, hoping no one will notice he’s not eating.

That’s probably about the time Victor’s wine kicks in.

“Yura, try this beef!” He shoves a forkful in front of Yuri’s face. Yuri shoots him a look, but ultimately takes the bite just so he’ll shut up.

“Victor!” Yuuri exclaims as Yuri chews. “Don’t feed him that swill! My shrimp is much better; try it, Yurio.”

Yuri is suddenly the judge in some kind of food competition.

“Yuuri, you never know what to order. Yurio, tell him how great my broccoli is.”

“But Yurio, try this soup. Tell Victor he needs to make it next time I’m sick.”

Yuri catches on to their game pretty quickly. He’s not stupid. They’ve noticed his lack of appetite and are force-feeding him, practically stuffing bite after bite into his mouth. He plays his role of sulking teenager, but in reality, he’s relieved to see the two of them fall back into their goofy antics. It’s been too long since they’ve acted this way around him.

“Oooh, Yakov, is that borscht? Yurio, tell us how it stacks up against our food.”

“You know what the problem is with Russia? They don’t know how to make good rice. I mean, just try this, Yurio. Isn’t it terrible?”

Yuri pushes away Yuuri’s outstretched fork. “Don’t give me bad food!” The rest of the table laughs.

Soon, Yuri finds that he really doesn’t want to eat anymore, so he puts a stop to the game. The others continue their banter, their plates clean.

Victor toasts to the three of them sharing a podium at the Grand Prix Final. Yuri taps his frosty glass against theirs good-naturedly, but doesn’t take a sip. When Victor suggests that they should each take a turn at gold this season, Yuuri and Yakov snicker and Yuri rolls his eyes.

“No, listen,” Victor insists stubbornly. “Yurio can take the Grand Prix, then let me have gold at the European Championships! You can have the Four Continents, of course, my love.” He smiles brightly at Yuuri.

Yuuri chuckles and shushes him. “That’s awfully generous, since neither of you will be competing there.” He puts his head in his hand, humoring Victor. “And what about Worlds, hmm?”

Victor knits his eyebrows together, then shrugs. “Rock, paper, scissors?”

The adults all laugh. “Nice try, but I think there are a few flaws in your plan,” Yuuri says. “I mean, for one, you’re crazy if you think Yurio will _let_ us win anything.”

“Damn straight,” Yuri sneers.

“And after Worlds,” Victor continues, completely ignoring them, “we’ll shop for a vacation home in Hasetsu.”

Yuuri almost chokes on his rum and coke. “What’s wrong with my family’s inn?”

“We need something more private!” Victor waggles his eyebrows suggestively across the table and Yuri nearly gags.

He’s about to interject about how he’ll be glad to be thousands of miles away from both of them, here in Moscow, when he suddenly remembers exactly what’s waiting for him here after Worlds. And just like that, the warm little bubble of safety that surrounds their table pops and reality sets back in. He doesn’t even know if his mother will have an apartment for him to come home to when he leaves Yakov’s for the season. He hasn’t seen any of the money he sends her go toward rent in a long time.

When the waitress comes back, they order dessert and Yuri realizes they’re not leaving the restaurant anytime soon. Rather than think too hard about his future, he swirls the straw around in his frou-frou drink, focusing on the way the previously-frozen mix has become soupy. By the time the new food arrives, he’s effectively tuned the others out.

It’s only a few more minutes before he starts to feel warm and sleepy. His exhaustion is stronger this time because he’s well fed. Glancing at the others, who aren’t paying attention to him, he slides his drink away and rests his head on his arms on the table. He stares at the wall with half-lidded eyes.

Distantly, he registers that Victor begins stroking his hair, his touch surprisingly gentle for how animated he had been up to this point.

“Has he slept at all?” Yuuri asks quietly. “I know he didn’t on the plane.”

“He was on his phone when I went to bed last night,” Yakov says, “And he was on his phone when I woke up.”

Yuri wonders briefly if he should be angry that they’re talking about him, but with Victor threading his fingers through his hair and the rest of the restaurant noise fading away to a dull buzz, he can’t bring himself to care.

“Has anyone seen him cry?” Victor’s voice is almost quieter than Yuuri’s.

“Not in our hotel room,” Yakov says. “I would have woken up.”

“Not at the apartment today, either,” Yuuri chimes in. “Or on the plane, that I saw.”

Victor hums his acknowledgment, and the sound has all the tenderness of a parent. Yuri wonders if Victor’s watching him, if he knows he’s still awake, albeit barely.

“His family’s really something, aren’t they?” Yuuri’s voice is a more normal volume now, as if he’s concluded that Yuri’s asleep. “I mean, I guess I kind of knew they probably weren’t the greatest, given how angry Yurio is all the time.”

Yep, Yuuri definitely thought he was asleep.

“Irena’s been like that ever since I’ve known her.” Yakov’s voice is more gruff than a minute ago. “I’ve never met her brother, though. Nikolai was such a good man. I don’t know how his kids turned out so… different than him.”

And there it was. His grandfather’s name, used in the past tense like that, makes Yuri’s heart sink. He squeezes his eyes shut and turns his head to bury his face in his arms. He lets Victor’s fingers distract him until he falls asleep.

 

* * *

 

As much as Yuuri, Victor, and Yakov tried to hurry and get Yuri back to the hotel room so he could get some real sleep, their efforts were in vain. Yuri is laying in the dark, wide awake, same as last night.

He texts Otabek, but between the three hour time difference and Otabek’s early bedtime, he’s unlikely to get a response. Yuri sighs.

He got off easy with his room today, he knows. The closet was probably the easiest, least personal place to start. He’s barely even opened it in the last few years. He is not looking forward to going back tomorrow.

Especially with his mother and uncle there. He’d been lucky enough to have minimal contact with them today, but he doubts it’ll be the case tomorrow. He’ll have to talk to them again sooner or later, if not in the next few days, then in the coming months.

Frustrated at himself, he scowls into the dark. He pushes the thoughts away like they’re persistent flies. Rolling over, he plugs his earbuds into his phone and puts on another movie, some action flick with a lot of explosions. It helps for a while, laying on his side, just watching the colors flash on the screen. Soon his drowsiness comes back and he nods off. The phone tips out of his hand.

He’s in his grandfather’s apartment. The TV is on, and an image of Yuri, in his free skate costume, dances across the screen.

In front of the television is his grandfather, reclining in his armchair. Yuri tries to call out to him, but his mouth doesn’t release any sound. He wants to move toward him, but his feet are cemented to the ground.

The on-screen Yuri lands a jump and Grandpa makes an impressed noise. Yuri thinks he should feel proud, but there’s an ominous feeling swirling in the air around him, and he just feels scared.

Sure enough, a few moments later, his grandfather makes a pained noise and clutches his chest. Yuri is helpless to do anything but watch as Grandpa falls from his chair and begins bleeding from an unseen wound. His eyes, wide with panic, look straight at Yuri.

“Yurochka,” his grandfather croaks. “Why won’t you help me?”

With a yelp, Yuri jerks himself awake. Tears are streaming down his face and his forehead is clammy with sweat. In a rush, he rips the sheets off and hurries to the bathroom. Feeling ill, he bends over the toilet. After a few minutes, though, the nausea passes without incident. He straightens and looks at himself in the mirror.

“It was only a dream,” he tells his reflection. “I can calm down now. I’m safe.”

It’s as if Yuuri’s words hold some sort of magic calming power. As he says them, the details of his dream become fuzzier. He doesn’t even try to catch them. It’s better to forget.

It’s another few minutes before he can return to the bed. Yakov snores steadily, and Yuri remembers what he said earlier in the restaurant, about how he’d have heard Yuri crying in the middle of the night. Yuri almost laughs out loud. Yakov sleeps like a rock.

Feeling a bit better, he goes back to sleep, confident that his exhaustion will keep him safe from his overactive imagination.

He’s wrong.

The next few hours are a special form of torture. Terrible visions of his grandfather suffering are separated by periods of half-wakefulness, when Yuri isn’t quite conscious enough to escape the cycle. His grandfather dies over and over, sometimes from an illness, sometimes because he’s hurt. Once it happens in an earthquake. Every time Yuri closes his eyes, the last image is replaced by a new one.

When he finally manages to wake up fully, he rushes to the bathroom again. He actually throws up this time. Why did Yuuri and Victor feed him so much?

It’s only four AM, but Yuri knows he won’t get any more sleep tonight. He can’t. He sits straight up in bed with that action movie on his phone and tries his best to contain everything behind the wall in his mind until the sun finally starts to rise.


	5. Sunday

There’s only one way to do this, Yuri decides as he sits on his bed and looks around his old room. Put in his earbuds, get a few more trash bags, and throw everything out.

He nods to himself. All of his important stuff is in St. Petersburg. Anything in this room is disposable at this point. So he picks the most energetic playlist he has, one with some epic guitar shreds, and goes to work.

He doesn’t work in any particular order. He just throws away anything in his line of sight. The comforter goes on top of a skating poster, which is on top of an old video game system. It’s disorganized, but it’s getting the job done.

And man, does Yuri want to be done with this. He’s ready to leave this apartment and never, ever look back.

Things will be better when he gets back to St. Petersburg. That’s what he keeps telling himself. Things will be back to normal in St. Petersburg. His grandfather wasn’t part of his life there before, save for a phone call once or twice a week. He’ll be happy again when there aren’t so many memories around.

And after St. Petersburg, well… don’t think about that.

He loses himself for a few hours, caught up in the music and his work. And then Yuuri and Victor have to come in and ruin it all.

Victor is behind him when he tugs the earbuds out of Yuri’s ears, scaring him half to death. Yuri yelps and spins to face him. “Why did you do that, idiot?”

“We’re done with the living room.” Victor beams at their accomplishment. “We thought we’d help you in here.”

“This place looks like a tornado hit it,” Yuuri observes.

Glancing around the room, Yuri realizes he’s right. He just shrugs. “Doesn’t matter,” he says, and hands them each a trash bag. “Here. Just start wherever.”

Victor wades through the clutter on the floor, looking around the room. “Anything we should be on the lookout for, that you want to take with you?”

“ _Nyet_.”

Yuuri peeks into the lone box in the middle of the room, the one with the few clothing items he’d decided to save yesterday. “Is this all you’re keeping?”

Yuri keeps his eyes on the poster he’s tearing off the wall, for some band he hasn’t listened to in months. “ _Da_.”

“Okay…” There’s hesitancy in Yuuri’s voice, but he starts working anyway.

And everything is fine, for a little while. Yuri is about to put his earbuds back in when a high-pitched, girlish squee fills the room.

“Yurio!” Victor exclaims. “Are these what I think they are?”

Turning, Yuri sees a tiny, battered pair of white ice skates in Victor’s hands. Well, they used to be white. Now they’re gray from overuse and age.

Yuri looks up at the ceiling. Lord, help him. Victor has found his childhood ice skates.

Yuuri is at Victor’s side in an instant. “Oh, my god, Yurio, is this your first pair of skates?”

“Yeah.” Yuri straightens and crosses his arms rebelliously. “So?”

The two fawn over them, squealing things like, “They’re so little,” and “Look how cute.” Yuri can practically feel bile rise in his throat as he watches in disgust.

“Enough,” he finally cuts them off. “Throw them away and get back to work.”

Victor gasps dramatically and clutches the skates close to his chest. “Yurio, these are your first skates! We can’t just throw them out!”

“Why not?”

Yuuri motions to the skates. “These skates mark the start of something amazing! They shouldn’t be in your toy box, they should be… I don’t know, in a trophy case somewhere.”

Yuri rolls his eyes. “My trophy case is for my medals, not some smelly old skates.”

Victor turns to Yuuri. “We’ll keep them in ours, then. We still have some room next to my Grand Prix gold from 2012.” Yuuri nods and picks up an empty box.

“What are you doing?” Yuri growls. “Don’t put my skates on display in your house!”

“Why not?” Yuuri asks. “You already said you don’t want them anymore. We want them.” Victor waits for Yuuri to write ‘For Victor and Yuuri’s Apartment <3<3<3’ in Sharpie on the box before he places them inside.

“You guys are so creepy.”

It isn’t long until they find a picture of Yuri skating when he was just seven, eliciting the same sounds of excitement that the skates did. Shortly after that, they find a ribbon from Yuri’s very first skating competition, a local charity event when he was nine.

Soon, there is talk of creating an entire Yuri shelf in their trophy case. Their box is more full than Yuri’s.

“Pathetic,” Yuri mutters. But he allows himself a half-smile when they’re not looking.

After a while, Yuuri and Victor excuse themselves to get in some practice time at the rink. Yuri frowns as they say goodbye, unhappy to be banned from training, even though he wasn't productive yesterday.

“Will you be alright finishing up here by yourself?” Yuuri looks protective as his eyes shift down the hall, where Yuri’s mother and uncle are still muddling through their father’s room.

“Yeah, I'll be done in an hour or so.”

“Yakov’s at the hotel, video chatting with Mila,” Victor says. “Head straight there when you're done.”

“I will.”

When they leave, the room is drearier, more gray. Before, it was his childhood bedroom. Now, without Yuuri and Victor’s cheerful presence and with his stuff in varying stages of disarray, the bedroom is cold and impersonal. He puts his earbuds back in and works as quickly as he can.

He doesn't add much to his box, but after watching Yuuri and Victor be overly sentimental with his stuff, he ends up taking a few things. A worn stuffed cat, his favorite toy after his mother left him. An old favorite book to be read from before bed. A few small toys that diligently guarded the top his dresser, making him smile when he opened the pajama drawer. He doesn't feel much attachment to the objects at the moment, but he feels like he should, so he keeps them out of the trash bag.

Exhaling, Yuri ties off his last bag and takes his earbuds out. He looks around his old room one last time. All that’s left is his naked bed and his few pieces of furniture, to be disposed of whenever they get a truck to haul all the big items away.

He doesn't linger too much longer. He’s stared at this room too much over the last couple days. He just lugs his trash bags to the growing pile in the living room and drops his box off by the front door.

He can't put off seeing his grandpa’s room any longer. He has to tell his mother he’s leaving. He trudges down the hall, giving himself time to prepare. _It’s just a room_ , he reminds himself. He takes a deep breath and pushes the door open.

He's relieved to see the room is nearly unidentifiable to the one he remembers. Trash bags litter the floor. There are some holes in the walls where pictures used to hang. His grandfather's old bible that was always beside his bed is absent.

Uncle Andrei is in the closet, rustling through the clothes, and Yuri’s mother sits cross legged on the floor, surrounded by a few shoeboxes and a glass of clear liquid.

As Yuri walks over to her, he notices the shoeboxes are filled with mail. Mail that looks pretty old. Mail with funny little stamps that look a bit familiar…

Yuri watches in horror as his mother destroys an envelope to get to the contents inside. She flips the letter over quickly, then discards the papers into a pile next to her.

When she hears Yuri’s angry approach, she looks up. “Oh, Yuri. You wrote these letters, didn’t you? Save me some time and tell me if there might be money in any of them?” She slurs her words slightly.

Yuri is trembling in fury as he picks up a tattered envelope. He looks at the neatly torn edge, from when his grandfather carefully used his letter opener. He eyes a letter, the creases still crisp where his grandfather had refolded it and slid it perfectly back into its envelope before filing it in the shoebox with the others.

Yuri had written his grandfather sporadically for years, ever since he’d moved to St Petersburg. And it looks like his grandfather had saved every piece of mail Yuri had sent him. Now, the letters lay open and crumpled, the envelopes marred by jagged rips.

Yuri almost loses his cool right then and there. It’s the closest he’s come to consciously crying through this whole ordeal. His grandfather apparently loved receiving his letters, and now, Yuri would never write another one to him again.

But he doesn’t focus on that right now. He focuses on his mother, destroying something that Yuri shared with his grandfather, on the off-chance that there may be some money hidden away. She couldn’t just open the letters nicely, could she? It isn’t worth the extra few seconds per letter, even though this is something that may be important to her son. Or, just as likely, she doesn’t possess the coordination to handle the papers without ripping them.

Yuri is welling up, but they’re angry tears. They sting at the corners of his eyes.

“How could you?” he hisses. “How could you possibly think you had the right to go through something so personal?”

Irena looks up at him. “Someone has to go through my father’s things, Yuri. You didn’t seem too eager to volunteer.” Her voice drips with cruelty.

“That doesn’t mean you get to destroy something that belongs to me!” Yuri yells. He drops to the floor and starts gathering the discarded letters as fast as he can. In his haste, he probably makes some of the damage worse, but he can’t worry about that now.

Irena doesn’t make a move to stop him, but she is angry. “I can do anything I want! We inherited everything in this apartment, including your stupid letters.”

“What’s going on in here?” Uncle Andrei emerges from the closet. “Is the delinquent causing trouble? Try to have some respect here, Yuri. We’re mourning.”

Yuri whips his head up so fast he almost gets whiplash. “What the hell does that mean? That I’m not?”

“I find it hard to believe,” Andrei says. There’s more than a hint of condescension in his voice. “You don’t seem to care very much. Your grandfather took you in, loved you, and you left him first chance you got.”

There’s a rustling sound, and it takes Yuri a moment to realize it’s the letters in his shaking hands. “I didn’t leave him—”

“When was the last time you even saw him? How many months? Where were you when he was dying in the hospital?”

Yuri’s voice cracks and he sounds like a small child. “I didn’t know—”

“Didn’t know? Or didn’t care?”

“Didn’t KNOW!” Yuri shoves the letters into one of the shoeboxes and piles them into his arms before he loses control and punches his uncle in the face. “Don’t you dare say I didn’t care about Grandpa. I’d have been at his side in a heartbeat if someone had told me. But no one did, and now it’s too late!”

He gasps in horror as his mouth says the words that his brain has refused to think. He turns and runs out of the room before the confrontation gets any worse. It’s a good thing he left his box of things by the front door, or he may have forgotten them altogether. He drops the shoeboxes inside and escapes the apartment, slamming the door behind him.

It’s not until he’s hailing a cab that he realizes he’ll never see the apartment he grew up in again.

 

* * *

 

Yuri is dangerously close to having another panic attack. He can feel it lurking. The cab driver keeps shooting him concerned looks in the rear view mirror.

He leans forward and grabs his head in his hands. Even though Yuuri isn’t here, Yuri can still hear his instructions.

Deep breaths. Okay.

_I can calm down now. I’m safe._

Deep breaths.

Don’t think about The Thing, don’t think about The Thing…

Eventually, his breathing evens out and the tears are gone from his eyes. He still doesn’t feel too great emotionally, but at least he’s got his body back under control.

Standing outside the hotel room, Yuri can hear Yakov talking to someone on the phone, so he knocks loudly. It sounds like Yakov says goodbye and the door swings open.

“Yuri,” Yakov greets him. And, an instant later, “What’s wrong?”

There are too many answers to that question, so Yuri just says, “I don’t know.”

Yakov steps aside to let him in. Yuri sets his box down next to his suitcase.

“Was it Irena?” Yakov asks when Yuri sits on the edge of the bed.

Yuri shakes his head, then nods. “And my uncle.”

Yakov curses. “What did they say to you?”

Yuri shrugs. “It doesn't matter.” His head adds _‘They were right’_ , but he doesn't say it.

“Yakov,” Yuri starts, and cringes when his voice shakes. He studies a spot on the carpet. “Can you tell me how it happened? Like, who called you, and stuff?”

He's still not sure he should be thinking about The Thing, but his uncle’s words have stirred up all his feelings. He feels incredibly guilty. If his grandfather had been ill, then Yuri should have never gone to New York.

Yakov sighs and sits down on his bed, across from Yuri. “Lilia got the call, since her number was the one on file. She called me immediately, so I could get to work changing our flight.

“Lilia was told that it was sudden. A heart attack, and he was gone by the time he got to the hospital. He didn't suffer.”

So Uncle Andrei had lied, then. There weren't hours spent at the hospital, holding Grandpa’s hand while he slowly died. There was no one last goodbye. Andrei and Yuri’s mother may have shown up at their father’s apartment just an hour before Yuri did, for all he knows.

But that doesn't change the fact that Yuri hadn't seen his grandfather in months. Their weekly phone calls were so mundane that Yuri can't even remember what they talked about the last time. The last time Yuri would ever hear his grandfather’s voice, and he can't remember it.

Yuri wrenches his mind away from that thought before it consumes him. He desperately grasps for something—anything—else that he can think of to distract himself, working through the smaller details of what Yakov told him instead.

“You called the airline right after you talked to Lilia?”

Yakov looks surprised. “Of course.”

“But you weren't on the phone after my free skate. I didn't see you on the phone during my free skate either!” Yuri furrows his brows, thinking back to that day. He snaps his eyes up to meet Yakov’s. “But you were in the hall for a long time when I was stretching!” His words turn accusing.

“Da…” Yakov looks ashamed. “I got the call before you performed.”

Yuri shoots to his feet. “What?”

“Just listen, Yura. I couldn’t have told you before the free skate.”

“Why?” Yuri demands. “Because I wouldn't have won gold? Because then it would have reflected badly on you?”

Yakov rises from his bed, a head taller than Yuri. “No, because it would have looked badly on you! I'm your coach. I wasn't going to let you ruin your career over news that could be shared an hour later.”

“I had a right to know!” Yuri feels hot with anger, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “If I had—”

“You would have flubbed up your free skate, just like you did in practice yesterday.” Yakov tries to catch Yuri’s eye, but Yuri looks away. “This way, you still have a choice, Yuri. You can pull out of the Grand Prix Final, if that’s what you feel is best, and I'll support you. It's okay to take some time off.”

Yuri’s shaking his head. Yakov puts a hand on his shoulder and goes on. “I just wanted to make sure your options stayed open. If you didn't make it to the Grand Prix Final, I wanted it to be because you decided not to go, not because you didn't qualify.”

Everything Yakov is saying makes sense, in a way, but Yuri can't bring himself to forgive him. If it hadn't been for all this stupid skating in the first place, he would have been around when his grandfather needed him. His grandfather wouldn’t have been alone. Yakov brought him to America when he should have been in Moscow.

“I had a right to know!” Yuri’s too outraged to form a coherent argument, so he just repeats the phrase. He makes eye contact with Yakov, glaring daggers. “You should have told me.”

Yakov gets defensive. He's always had a short temper, and Yuri knows how to press his buttons. “I did the right thing,” he says. “One day you'll thank me for it.”

“Thank you for what, old man? For forbidding me from skating a week before the Grand Prix Final? For spending all your time in the hotel room, coaching Mila? Why are you even here? Victor and Yuuri have been around more than you.”

Yakov’s face grows red. “Do you have any idea how much I'm sacrificing to be here? How much rescheduling I've had to do?”

“Well, don't do me any favors. If you want to leave, then go!”

“I don’t want to, but maybe I should. Since I haven’t been helping all that much.”

Yakov is mocking him, and it infuriates Yuri. His hands are shaking and he can hear his heart beating in his ears. “Don’t say it like that!” he yells. “You haven’t helped! None of you have. None of you understand what I’m going through. I wish you’d all just leave me the hell alone!” Yuri turns to storm out the door.

Yakov is breathing hard, clearly still angry, but he reaches out for Yuri before he can turn to leave. “Wait. Yurochka, stop.”

Yuri spins around and slaps Yakov’s hand away. “Stop calling me that!” he roars. Yakov looks shocked at the reaction, but Yuri doesn’t care. He never wants to hear that nickname again. He squeezes his eyes tight. “Don’t you dare call me that.”

He turns his back to Yakov and walks out the door.

 

* * *

 

Yuri fumes as he storms through the halls of the hotel. Eventually, he finds himself at the hotel gym. He's holding onto his anger with a viselike grip, because that wall that's holding all his other feelings back is close to breaking.

He jumps on a treadmill, frustrated that his earbuds are back in his box in Yakov’s room. He could really go for some ear-splittingly loud music right now.

Instead, he turns the treadmill up to a quick jog, even though he's not dressed for it. Remembering the way he fell on the ice yesterday, he clips the emergency line to his shirt.

The rhythmic pounding of his feet ground him. He chants along to the beat in his head. _I'm safe, I'm safe, I'm safe._

He was irrationally spiteful to Yakov, Yuri knows, but he can't help the way he feels. No matter how Yakov tries to justify it, Yuri should have been told the minute there was news that something was wrong.

He thinks back to that day, how he was so at peace when he skated. He was elated with his score at the kiss and cry. He was thrilled that Otabek made it to the Grand Prix Final with him.

He had been so happy, so free, so caught up in his victory. All the while, his grandfather had been dead.

_Dead_.

Yuri makes a pained sound between panting breaths. Stop thinking about The Thing! He pushes the speed on the treadmill higher until the only possible thing he can think about is keeping up.

And it helps, for a while. His muscles burn and his lungs gasp for air. He's in survival mode. His phone buzzes, propped up next to the speed display on the treadmill. A call from Yakov. He ignores it.

Soon, exhaustion catches up with him and the treadmill is going a little too fast. He lags just slightly behind the conveyor belt, but it’s enough to tug the emergency cord out of its slot. All momentum suddenly stops. Yuri overcorrects, trying to keep his balance, but accidentally trips and takes a few steps backwards.

He's about to fall flat on his ass, but instead a pair of strong arms catch him by the elbows. “Whoa!” Victor says in his ear. He steadies Yuri, spinning him around. “Are you okay?”

Yuri hadn't even heard Victor come in. He nods, out of breath from sprinting.

Victor looks at him sadly and pushes a matted lock of Yuri's hair out of his eyes. “Oh, Yura,” he says woefully. “You're drenched. What were you thinking?” He looks Yuri up and down. “Don't you know running in skinny jeans is bad for your fertility?”

 

* * *

 

Victor brings him up to his and Yuuri’s hotel room, which, Yuri notices, is much bigger than the room he had shared with Yakov. It's a suite, complete with kitchenette. Big double doors separate the bedroom from the living area. Yuuri is nowhere to be found when Victor pushes Yuri into the shower, but by the time Yuri comes out, he can hear both of their voices. He also sees that his suitcase is in the bathroom, so somebody must have retrieved it from Yakov’s room.

A shower and a change of clothes make Yuri feel a lot better. He’s back to safely avoiding The Thing, although he's still upset at Yakov. He won't be apologizing anytime soon.

There’s a few text messages from Otabek on his phone. Yuri stays in the steamy bathroom a minute longer so he can answer.

_**OA:** Hey, you there?_  
_**OA:** Victor called and said you were missing_

Yuri rolls his eyes. Victor is such a stalker. He types back:

_**YP:** It’s fine. They found me_

He pushes send, then gathers his suitcase and leaves the bathroom.

“Hey, Yurio!” Yuuri greets him when he finally emerges. “We ordered room service.”

There’s a whole feast spread out on the coffee table. Yuri perches himself awkwardly on the couch while Yuuri and Victor sit on the floor, cross-legged, on the other side of the coffee table. The last thing Yuri wants is for them to try and force-feed him again, so he does his best to eat enough to satisfy their scrutinizing stares.

Another text comes from Otabek and Yuri keys out a quick response.

_**OA:** Are you ok?_  
_**YP:** Yep. Victor overreacted_

“So,” Yuuri says when Yuri puts down his phone, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“ _Nyet_.”

Victor and Yuuri exchange a look. “Do you want to talk about anything?”

Yuri shoots them a glare.

Yuuri puts down his fork. “It’s just that… you haven’t really talked to anyone about this. It’s not healthy.”

Both of them are looking at Yuri now. Expecting something. Yuri suspects that they are just about done with giving him his space. Maybe Yakov told them what he had said. _None of you understand what I’m going through._ But really, isn’t that the most “teenager” thing to say ever? They shouldn’t be taking it so seriously.

“I don’t need to talk about it,” he says, concentrating stubbornly on his plate. “I’m fine.”

“You just nearly killed yourself with a treadmill,” Victor deadpans.

Yuuri chuckles, not unkindly. “Good thing we were already on the way home from the rink when Yakov called us and told us to look for you. Otherwise it may have been too late!” His expression sobers. “We were really afraid you’d left the hotel, though.”

Yuri doesn’t know what he was supposed to say to that, so he just says, “Nope.”

“I don’t know, I’ve done some pretty crazy things after fighting with Yakov,” Victor says, leaning back to rest on the heels of his hands. “If I were you, I’d be halfway to the airport right now. Book a ticket on whatever flight was leaving next, meet a boy at the airport bar, and take him with me.” Yuuri shoots him a puzzled look, and Victor hastily adds, “It was before we met! Long, long before.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Yuuri says, shaking his head as he turns back to Yuri. “Will you at least tell us what happened after we left the apartment? Yakov said there was some drama with your mom and uncle, and if we’re going to have to see them at the funeral tomorrow, I’d like to know what they said.”

“Yes,” Victor adds, leaning forward again in interest. “Tell us, so we know how mad to be.”

But Yuri doesn’t register his joke. Yuuri’s casual words shoot straight through him like bullets, first the mention of the still-raw fight with his relatives, and then the impending funeral, which Yuri has done a great job of ignoring up until now.

“It doesn’t matter.” Yuri picks up his phone to signal that he’s done talking. “They’re assholes.”

Otabek’s latest message is just a half-frowning face.

_**YP:** They’re trying to get me to open up._

He adds a barfing-face emoji and sends the text.

“We already know that!” Victor is saying. “But what specifically happened today?”

Yuri’s phone immediately dings with a text from Otabek.

_**OA:** Talk to them!!!!!!!!_

Yuri rolls his eyes and doesn’t answer Otabek. He looks instead to Yuuri and Victor, waiting patiently.

“I just don’t want to talk about it,” he says, almost helplessly.

Yuuri looks defeated. “Okay, Yurio. Just tell us one thing. Did they hurt you?”

“No, no!” Yuri says quickly. “Nothing like that.”

“Okay, okay!” Yuuri puts his hands up defensively. “We were sure you’d be safe, which is why we left you alone with them, but then when you came back so upset, we were worried…”

“It wasn’t like that,” he says again. Yuri can see why they would jump to that conclusion, and deep down he feels a little touched that they look so wildly possessive of him right now. But neither his mother nor his uncle had ever laid a hand on him. Thank god for that.

Victor nods. “Okay. Good.” He glances at Yuuri, then starts gathering their plates. Yuri thinks the conversation is over until Victor glances down his illuminated phone. “Yakov made it to the airport.”

So he really did leave. Yuri waits to feel something, anything, about this news that will clue him into his true feelings about the situation. But he still doesn’t really know whether he’s okay with Yakov missing the funeral. He decides to stick to his guns. “Good.”

Yuuri is studying him. “I understand why you’re mad at him, you know,” he says quietly. Victor had been trying to fit all the plates back on the room service trays, but he pauses when Yuri says this. “I’ve been mulling it over for days, and I still don’t know what the right decision would have been.”

Victor straightens, a tray in his hands. “Yakov made the right choice. He would have done you a great disservice if he had told you before your free skate.”

As Victor wrestles the dirty dishes outside their room’s door, Yuuri shakes his head. “We don’t agree on this one.”

Yuri’s eyebrows shoot up in disbelief.

Victor returns to the living room. “Let me just explain what would have happened.” Yuri’s surprised to see Victor reasoning with Yuuri, as if they’re alone in the room, without Yuri listening in. “Yurio was already in a high-stress environment. You saw how he reacted to the news after the competition. Now imagine if he found out right before. Yakov would have had to ask Yuri whether he would have wanted to go on with the free skate or not. You can’t give someone life-changing news and then ask them to make a career-altering decision right after.”

Yuuri makes an exhausted noise. “We’ve been over this. There was no way to know how Yurio would have reacted. For all Yakov knew, he may have been able to skate. He may have been able to compartmentalize things, or use his emotions in his program.”

“He’s sixteen!” Victor practically yells. He doesn’t seem angry, just tired. He takes a deep breath and shakes his head. “Yakov is the coach. He handled it the right way, if you ask me. Besides, it doesn’t matter now. What’s done is done.”

When Victor retreats to the bedroom, Yuuri stands up and tells Yuri, “I’ll admit that I understand Yakov’s motives, and, to be fair, he didn’t have very long to think about it. He did the best with what he had.” Yuuri shrugs. “But I’m with you. I would have wanted to know.”

It had been oddly fascinating to witness an argument between the power couple, but Yuri’s kind of glad he did. It makes them seem a little more human to him, a little more real, instead of the gushy love-struck schoolboys they normally are.

Besides, it feels good to have an ally. Yuri affords Yuuri a small grateful smile.

Yuuri grins back at him, then picks up a stack of linens. “We got these from housekeeping,” Yuuri informs him, putting the pillow on one end of the couch. He unfolds the comforter and drapes it affectionately over Yuri’s head, wrapping him up until only his face is free. “If you need anything or you feel like you want to talk later, come wake us up. Don’t stay up too late, okay?”

“Okay,” Yuri says quietly. Yuuri leaves him alone, closing the double doors to his and Victor’s room.

Yuri sighs, feeling very heavy in his new cocoon of warmth. It’s been a long day, maybe even longer than the last few. He’s definitely touched on every possible emotion at one point or another. Now, he just feels empty.

It’s nice to just feel empty. It’s safe.

But all his worries are gnawing away at the wall in the back of his brain, vying for his attention. The funeral tomorrow. Facing Yakov again back in St. Petersburg. Whether he’ll be able to skate in the Grand Prix Final. What will happen to him when his season is over.

Quickly, Yuri whips out his cell phone and texts Otabek again.

_**YP:** You still up?_  
_**OA:** Yeah, did you talk to them?_  
_**YP:** A little. Kinda tired of talking, tbh_  
_**OA:** Anything I can do?_  
_**YP:** Text me?_  
_**OA:** lol, already am_  
_**YP:** Send me some cat gifs, then_

For once, he and Otabek talk well into the night. After cat gifs they switch to prank videos, and then Otabek sends some footage of a recent DJing gig he’d had. Later, Yuri would never be entirely sure which one of them drifted off first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the support so far! Next week I’ll be uploading chapter 6 and the epilogue at once, so that means next Sunday the story will be done! ^_^


	6. The Day of the Funeral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, I tried to research Russian funeral customs a little, but I didn't really find much. And what I did find really wouldn't fit in with the story I'm trying to tell here. So used my artistic license and made Yurio's grandfather's funeral pretty westernized. I still apologize for any cultural insensitivity, though.

It takes both Victor and Yuuri to wake Yuri up the next morning. To be fair, Victor probably could have done it very creatively all by himself, but the two are being purposely delicate. It is the day of his grandfather’s funeral, after all.

After a good deal of soft words and patting, they finally coerce Yuri into a seated position. Still groggy, Yuri stubbornly clutches his comforter around him, the same way Yuuri had wrapped him up last night. He probably looks like an old beggar woman, but he hardly cares.

“We got breakfast. Feel like eating?” Victor motions to the new food that’s inhabiting the coffee table. “There’s juice, yogurt, bagels, fruit…”

Yuri’s stomach turns at the sight of it. He shakes his head.

“Yeah.” Yuuri sighs. “I thought not.”

Victor approaches him with a comb and a few bobby pins. “We don’t have too much time because we were trying to let you sleep.”

Yuri frowns as Victor tugs the comforter off his head. Victor stands behind the couch and begins to tame Yuri’s snarls. It isn’t the first time Victor’s done his hair, but it is the first time Yuri doesn’t put up a fight. He stares ahead at Yuuri, who is picking at the breakfast food, and notices he’s in his suit already, ready to go.

“I don’t want to do this,” Yuri mumbles. His voice is rough from sleep. He can’t remember any nightmares from last night, but judging by the way he is feeling right now, he may not have been asleep long enough to dream. He distinctly remembers seeing the first rays of morning light flood into the room.

“I know.” Yuuri hands him a cup of orange juice with a straw. “It sucks, but if you don’t go, you’ll regret it someday.”

Yuri can’t imagine that far ahead. It goes against his one-day-at-a-time mentality. He’s been focused on tackling each new hurdle as it comes. But today is the day he’s been trying not to think about, and brings with it the biggest hurdle yet.

Victor is careful with the comb. “Drink your juice, Yurio. You should get something in your stomach, at least.”

Yuri complies. It tastes sickly sweet and thick in his throat, like cough syrup. But he doesn’t have the energy to argue. And it seems to be making Yuuri happy, so Yuri takes another sip.

His voice sounds less gravelly now that he’s drinking. “I have nothing to wear.”

When originally packing a week ago, Yuri had begrudgingly included a nice outfit, since Yakov has a habit of wrangling him into press conferences after events sometimes, but it’s hardly funeral attire. There’s no way he can show up to his grandfather’s funeral in khakis and a green shirt.

Maybe that means he can’t go. He can huddle himself back up in the comforter, fall on the pillow, and hide from the world.

“I had some of my old suits shipped over from St. Petersburg.” Victor puts down the comb and tugs different sections of Yuri’s hair to be pinned down. “One of them should fit you.”

Yuri raises his eyebrows at Yuuri, because he can’t turn his head to give Victor his incredulous look. “Wouldn’t it have been easier to just have my suit sent over?”

Victor says, “Mine are nicer.” Yuuri shrugs apologetically.

Victor finishes with Yuri’s hair and leads him to the bathroom to freshen up and change. All Yuri does is stare at his reflection and mentally prepare himself for the day.

He’ll see his family. That will suck.

He’ll have to sit through a church service. That will suck.

People will give their condolences. Yuuri will cry. Yakov won’t be there. It all sucks.

And then it’ll be time to say goodbye.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Yes. He’s ready. He can do this.

 

* * *

 

He can’t do this.

The moment he steps out of the cab, eyes are gravitating toward him. Sympathetic murmurs and supportive smiles follow him as he walks to the church. Victor and Yuuri had purposely planned their arrival for just ten minutes before the service starts, but people still stop to talk to Yuri. His grandfather’s elderly friends give him bony hugs, tell him what a great man his grandfather was, and how proud he had been of Yuri.

They’re saying all the things Yuri’s been trying not to think about.

Victor snakes an arm around Yuri’s shoulders. He and Yuuri utter thank yous on Yuri’s behalf, and offer smiles. All Yuri has to do is make eye contact and nod politely. He’s barely managing it.

When they finally make it into the church, Yuri is surprised at how full it is. He knows his grandfather got along with nearly everyone, but he still only anticipated a few dozen people. There is probably close to a hundred people in the church, maybe more. And he’s only spoken to about five of them. There’s no way he can handle the attention from the rest.

Yuri strains his neck to see all the way to the front row, reserved for family. His mother and uncle are already seated. They don’t seem to be talking. Yuri hopes that doesn’t mean they’re fighting. He doesn’t want to be pulled into the middle. In fact, he doesn’t want attention from them at all.

He turns around to Yuuri and Victor. “Um, do you guys think that maybe you could sit with me? In the front?”

Yuuri looks touched, but Victor raises an eyebrow in disbelief. “Yeah, like we were going to leave you alone with those two vultures again. Come on.”

He leads the three of them to the front row, purposely leaving a respectable deal of space between them and Yuri’s uncle and mother. Uncle Andrei is shooting daggers at them with his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything about Yuri’s bodyguards. Yuuri and Victor sit on either side of Yuri, close enough, it seems, to hold him upright. Any other day he’d yell at them and demand some space, but today he just closes his eyes and tries to borrow their strength.

“They chose a good picture,” Yuuri says quietly beside him. Yuri opens his eyes and looks up toward the podium. He instantly regrets it. Seeing his grandfather’s smiling portrait, the first picture he’s looked at since he died (no use trying to avoid The Thing now, not when the funeral is staring him in the face) sends lead through his veins.

It _is_ a beautiful picture. His grandfather’s salt and pepper hair is combed back, and he’s laughing into the camera. It’s actually a photo that Yuri himself took a few years ago, when his grandfather took him to the Russian ballet. During intermission, Yuri had been bored and stole his grandfather’s phone, taking selfies of the two of them in their evening wear. The night had been a happy one, but right now, thinking about it, Yuri feels only crippling fear.

He’s sweaty and stifled in his suit. This tie is impossibly tight. He can feel his breathing quicken, so he closes his eyes again. “I’m safe,” he reminds himself quietly.

Yuuri hears him and takes his shaking hands. “That’s right,” he says, matching Yuri’s volume so the moment stays private. “You’re safe. We’re right here for you.”

Yuri looks at him, feeling helpless like a child. Victor reaches around Yuri’s back to clutch his shoulder and pull him close.

All too soon, the service begins. Yuri keeps his eyes on the floor, tuning out the words and letting the cadence of the hymns wash over him. He keeps telling himself that he’s safe, but he doesn’t feel safe at all. He can’t even look at a stupid picture.

Yuri slowly registers that his uncle is speaking at the podium, but he doesn’t want to listen. His Uncle Andrei may be saying some lovely things. He may even be sincere (it was his father, after all), but Yuri can only picture the other side of his uncle, the one that sneered and lied right to his face, just for the sake of hurting Yuri. Yuri tries to focus on the anger toward his uncle, since that has become his way of running away, but today it doesn’t work. He only feels stressed out and tense.

Suddenly, Victor releases his grip of Yuri’s shoulder. Yuri blinks as Victor stands, startled at the sudden loss of warmth. Yuuri hugs Yuri to his side instead, and Yuri realizes that Victor is going to say something about his grandfather. This is a complete surprise. Yuri sits straight up, attentive.

Victor, in his endless grace, looks right at home at the podium in front of the church. Yuri gets goosebumps as Victor clears his throat, the familiar sound echoing over the PA system.

“My name is Victor Nikiforov,” he says, as if there’s anyone in the church who doesn’t know. Already, murmurs of recognition are sounding through the pews. “I had the honor of knowing Nikolai because I’ve shared a rink for many years with his grandson, Yuri.” Yuri leans forward at the mention of his name, hanging on Victor’s every word.

“Nikolai was the kindest, most supportive person I’ve ever met. He took Yuri in when he was only four, even though he had already raised his two children and his parenting responsibilities had come to an end. But Nikolai never complained. He was always one to help those in need.”

Tears prickle at the corners of Yuri’s eyes. There’s something different about hearing the comforting words from a person that he trusts. He doesn’t want to tune Victor out; he wants to hear more.

“When Yuri wanted to pursue figure skating, Nikolai scraped together all his savings to send him to the summer camp of Russia’s finest coach. He only wanted his grandson to have the best. And when that coach wanted Yuri to stay in St. Petersburg to train, Nikolai did whatever it took to make sure it happened, even though he couldn’t travel much anymore.

“I’d like to tell you the story of the first time I met Nikolai. It was at a skating event when Yuri was twelve. I sat next to Nikolai while Yuri skated his program.”

Yuri’s eyes widen a little. He’s never heard this before. Victor goes on. “I assume Yuri skated flawlessly, but to tell you the truth, I wasn’t watching him. I couldn’t help but watch Nikolai, who couldn’t take his eyes off his grandson. There was such a sense of pride in his eyes. I had never seen any other parent watch their child with such rapture.

“When Yuri was done, Nikolai had the biggest smile on his face. He turned to me and said something I’ll never forget. He said, ‘One day, my boy will clean the floor with you.’” Victor chuckles fondly, and the congregation joins in. When they quiet down, he continues. “It was the first thing he’d ever said to me. You can imagine my surprise.”

Yuuri squeezes Yuri’s hand. Yuri makes eye contact him for a moment, and can almost see the pride that Victor is describing mirrored in Yuuri’s eyes.

“Well, we still have a week before we’ll know for sure, but I have a feeling Nikolai may end up being right. The love and confidence he had in Yuri made him grow into an amazing person. It’s a testament to the kind of person Nikolai was. He was gentle, patient, and self-sacrificing. May we all learn something from his selflessness.” Victor bows his head in the direction of Nikolai’s poster reverently, then moves back to their pew.

When Victor sits back down with them, Yuri can’t help but stare. A single tear escapes. He whispers, “Thank you,” and Victor envelops him in a hug. It’s comforting, and Yuri wants it to be a sacred moment, but he can feel his uncle’s critical gaze on his back. He pulls away before he’s ready.

The longer the service goes on, the more exhausted Yuri becomes. He’s certain that the only words he needed to hear today were Victor’s. He doesn’t want to listen to the priest or to his grandfather’s friends. He definitely doesn’t want to hear anything his mother or uncle has to say. He doesn’t want to see the body in the open casket in the viewing area and he doesn’t want to go to the cemetery. It’s too much.

When the service ends, he says as much to Yuuri and Victor. “Do you think grandpa would be disappointed if we just went back home?” he asks them in a broken voice. He’s slouching a bit, weary, but he looks at him with worry.

Yuuri immediately shakes his head. “He wouldn’t be disappointed. Funerals are to honor those we’ve lost, yes, but they’re also to bring us closure. If you don’t think this is bringing you closure, then we can go.”

Yuri nods, relieved. Victor and Yuuri do an excellent job of escorting him from the church with minimal interaction with anyone else, and Yuri thinks he’s almost home free when his uncle’s voice stops the three of them in their tracks.

“Yuri.” On any other day, the disapproval in Uncle Andrei’s voice would fire Yuri up, but today, Yuri feels so vulnerable that the words cut him straight to his bones. “Where are you going? After all your grandfather gave you, you’re not even going to pay your respects?”

It makes Yuri feel about two centimeters tall. His uncle is flanked by his mother, who is looking uncharacteristically twitchy and nervous. The rest of the congregation is filing out of the church, but they stay a good distance away, as if they can feel the confrontation that’s about to happen. They still watch, though.

Victor steps forward. “Yuri is not feeling well. We think it best to take him back to the hotel.”

“Is that so?” With everyone watching, Andrei keeps his face neutral, but his words are anything but. “I wonder if it’s you who should be making that decision, with his mother right here?”

“Well,” says Victor coolly, keeping his voice down so the onlookers won’t hear, “since I haven’t seen her act like a mother for one minute since we’ve arrived in Moscow, I’m taking it upon myself to look out for Yuri’s best interests. Right now he’s not feeling well, and we’re taking him back to the hotel. Get him in the cab, Yuuri.”

Yuuri takes Yuri’s hand and tries to pull him in the direction of the street, but Yuri can’t tear his eyes away from his uncle, who is literally going red with rage.

“Irena!” Uncle Andrei barks.

“Yuri,” his mother whimpers. She scampers around Victor and takes Yuri’s free hand, clutching it close to her chest. “Please come with us. I had something I wanted to talk to you about.”

Yuri narrows his eyes at her. “What?”

“Just, things, darling. It’s a hard time for us all…”

So money, then. His mother is only sweet when she wants something.

“I don’t think so.” Yuri pulls his hand from her grip.

When he takes a retreating step back, she hurries to plead her case. “I was just thinking, since you don’t have to support your grandfather anymore, that maybe it would free up some funds…”

“That’s quite enough, Irena.” Victor’s voice is firm when he steps between the two of them. “This isn’t the time or the place.”

“Excuse me,” Uncle Andrei speaks up, loud enough to be heard by the spectators. “This is none of your concern. Please leave the poor child alone so he can grieve with his family.”

Exhaustion forgotten (or perhaps it’s his exhaustion that’s fueling him), Yuri closes the gap between him and his uncle. He stands directly in his uncle’s personal space and hisses, “You have no right to call yourself my family, or to treat my friends this way. We are leaving now, and if I never see you again, it’ll be too soon.”

He ignores his uncle’s sputtering reply and turns to his mother. “You’re lucky I don’t cut you off right here and now,” he says in a low voice, so low Yuuri and Victor may not even be able to hear him. It’s an empty threat, and he and his mother both know it. He’s not even sure he’ll be able to keep her away from his money much longer, if she truly gets guardianship back.

That doesn’t mean he can’t make her sweat a little, though.

He regards them both with contempt, daring them to say another word. It’s lucky they don’t, because Yuri doesn’t think he’ll have enough self control to keep himself from yelling for much longer.

He turns his back on them and takes a few steps toward Yuuri and Victor. He knows his face is stormy, so he keeps his gaze carefully trained on the ground. “Take me home, please,” he whispers, and lets them lead him away.

 

* * *

 

When they get back to the hotel room, Yuri switches immediately into his sweatpants. He leaves Victor’s suit in a heap on the floor of the bathroom with little remorse, and the bobby pins in his hair are soon scattered across the counter. The small bit of vulnerability he’d felt in the church has passed. The anger at his family has dissipated. Yuri’s not sure what’s left over. He flops down on Victor and Yuuri’s bed, freshly made by housekeeping.

He has every intention of just lying on his side and staring at the wall until he falls asleep, nightmares be damned. Unfortunately, Yuuri and Victor want to get all touchy-feely again.

“Hey, Yurio,” Yuuri says gently, sitting down next to him, on the edge of the bed. Yuri’s knees dip with the mattress. “Want to talk about what happened back there?”

It’s annoying, but Yuri can understand why they’re being persistent. “No.”

There’s a slight pause. Victor climbs onto the bed behind him, but his voice comes from high above, so Yuri can tell he’s sitting. “You sure? I think it’s probably time to talk about it.”

Damn it, they’re teaming up on him. Yuri squeezes his eyes shut as the wall he’s built in his head begins to strain. _Hold it back_ , he thinks. _We go back to St. Petersburg tomorrow. Everything will be back to normal._ Naturally, that little niggling voice in his head is dying to remind him what will happen after that, the Grand Prix Final and the rest of the season, and then he’ll be right back here in Moscow with his mother. Yuri does his best to silence the little niggling voice. “Just go away. Leave me alone.” Even to himself, his voice sounds pained.

Victor lets out a half-laugh. “I think not.”

Yuuri, as always, is a little less blunt. “I really don't think that's a good idea right now.”

Yuri doesn't have the energy to argue. He sighs. “Fine. Do whatever you want.”

They sit in silence for a minute. When it becomes apparent that Yuri isn't going to say anything, Yuuri stands up. “Hey!” he says suddenly, his voice far too chipper for the current situation. “You know what always makes me feel better?” Yuri lifts his head to stare at him, almost in disbelief. Victor is normally the one to be falsely cheerful in these situations. Yuuri grins when he sees he had Yuri’s attention. “Comfort food.”

Yuri puts his head back on the pillow. “I'm not hungry.”

“Oh, I think you will be.”

Yuri glares at him. “I don't want any more room service.”

“It's not room service. Sit up.”

Scowling, Yuri scoots into a sitting position next to Victor, crossing his arms stubbornly. Yuuri darts out of the room. Yuri can see him digging around in the mini fridge. When Yuri glances at Victor, he only provides a mysterious smile.

Yuuri comes back and hands Yuri a Tupperware container. It must have been in the icebox, judging by the temperature and the crystalline designs on the inside.

Puzzled, Yuri pulls back the lid. Inside are three perfectly puffed pirozhki. Yuri looks up in shock.

“Are these…?”

Yuuri beams. “We found them in the fridge when we were cleaning out the kitchen, so we grabbed them for you.”

Yuri’s mouth is halfway open as he looks down at the pirozhki. They're a perfect golden brown, and as flawless as if they'd just came out of the oven.

“I never thought I'd have Grandpa’s pirozhki again…” he says quietly.

Maybe it's this small act of thoughtfulness shown by his friends, or the stress of the funeral, or seeing his grandfather’s smiling picture and his uncle's disapproving stare. Or maybe it's the pure exhaustion of four days with no sleep. Whatever the reason, now is the moment that Yuri’s wall, the one that holds everything back, finally crumbles down.

Every muscle in his face seizes up at once and he dissolves into tears. He sets the Tupperware to the side, draws his knees to his chest, curls up in a ball.

Victor is instantly there, pulling Yuri close. Yuuri surrounds him on the other side, rubbing his back. And Yuri cries like a baby.

_He’s gone,_ Yuri lets himself think. _He's gone._ The knee-jerk reaction that came whenever he thought about The Thing before doesn’t come, and he stops lying to himself about his new reality.

The smiling picture from the funeral, his grandpa will never smile at him that way again. He won't be waiting for him to come home for the summer. He won't be on the other end of their weekly phone calls, asking Yuri every detail about his life. He'll never make him pirozhki or call him Yurochka or hold him tight after he performs, ever again.

And it hurts. It _hurts_. It's like a rock that sits heavy on his chest and makes it hard to take a full breath. He leans completely onto Victor, unable to hold himself upright. Victor is strong and steady for him. It's impressive, because Yuri is letting out some deep, body-wracking sobs.

Both Victor and Yuuri murmur supportive things, though Yuri is too caught up in his grief to listen to them. Victor strokes his hair like he did that night in the restaurant and Yuuri rubs circles on his back.

Yuri's not sure how long they stay like that, but it's long enough for the mean little voice in his head to finally run out of things to say. His sobs turn into shallow, hitching breaths.

The instant Yuuri notices him slow down, he magically produces a glass of water and a box of tissues. Yuri peels himself off Victor’s white dress shirt, which, Yuri is embarrassed to see, is soaked to the point of being almost see-through.

“I'm sorry,” Yuri says. His voice sounds rough, like sandpaper.

“It's okay.” Victor flashes him an encouraging smile and slides off the bed to change.

Yuri takes a long drink of the water, then tries to use the tissues to clean himself up only to realize the tears are still coming.

“I'm sorry…” he says again, helplessly, to Yuuri this time.

“Hey, it's fine.” Yuuri's voice is full of compassion, and Yuri notices he’s cried a little bit, too.

Yuuri’s arms surround him and Yuri melts. “I just… I miss him so much.”

“I know,” Yuuri whispers. “I know.”

Victor joins them back on the bed, but Yuuri is welcoming in a different way, a softer way, so Yuri stays in his arms. And this cry is a softer cry, not all-encompassing, like before. Since Yuri can talk now and he feels like he owes them an explanation, he finds himself pouring his heart out, even if he can only manage half-sentences.

“He was probably all alone and maybe he was afraid and I wasn't there! I should've been there, I should've… but I was skating! I was skating.” He pulls back to look Yuuri in the eye. “I was so excited when I won gold, Yuuri. I was so _happy_ , and all the while, my grandpa was _dead_ and I had no idea…”

“Holy shit,” whispers Victor.

“You can't feel guilty about that,” Yuuri says firmly. “That was not your fault.”

But how could he not feel guilty? How could he have been so oblivious that he didn't sense that the one person who mattered most to him in the world was gone? Shouldn't he have known? Shouldn't he have had at least a bad feeling or something?

He blubbers through some unpolished version of those questions, but Yuuri cuts him off.

“Stop. You're not psychic. There's no way you could have known.”

“But… but I've been having these dreams. I think Grandpa blames me.”

Victor looks surprised. “You've been having nightmares, Yurio?”

Yuuri ignores him and addresses Yuri instead. “Dreams aren't real. They're just your imagination running wild while you sleep. Think of your grandpa. He loved you. Why would he blame you for anything?”

Yuri finds himself slowly nodding along, even though he doesn't completely believe Yuuri yet. He sniffles and looks down.

“What else, Yurio?” Yuuri urges. “What happened yesterday at the apartment? With your mom?”

Fresh tears fall, and Yuri wonders briefly why Yuuri is torturing him. But he scoots off the bed anyway and retrieves one of the shoeboxes with his letters. He explains what happened, shows them the shredded remains.

“That bitch,” Victor says.

By the time Yuri finishes telling them about what followed with his uncle, Victor’s face is hard with anger.

“You can't listen to them,” Yuuri says. “They're manipulative and emotionally abusive.”

“I know.” Even as he acknowledges that Yuuri’s right, Uncle Andrei’s words about how Yuri left his grandfather all alone are running through his mind. Even though he knows better, he can’t let go of the things his mother and Uncle Andrei said to him. Why did he have such a shitty family? Why couldn’t his mother be loving and supportive, like Yuuri’s mother, who once welcomed Yuri with a loving embrace, even though he was a stranger?

These thoughts bring a whole new wave of tears, even though, by all accounts, Yuri should be out by now. Victor steps in again this time, pulling Yuri's head to lean against his shoulder.

“What am I going to do?” he whispers into Victor’s t-shirt. “How can I go back to her?”

“Wait a minute.” Victor brings his hands to Yuri’s shoulders and yanks him backward to look him in the face. “What do you mean, ‘go back to her?’”

Yuri blinks, tears clinging to his eyelashes. “After the skating season ends? I always go home to Moscow. But now that he's gone…” His voice only barely cracks on the word this time. “…my mother has custody back.” Victor and Yuuri are both staring at him, so, in a small voice, he adds, “Right?”

“Oh my god, no!” Victor looks at him with a mix of disbelief and pity. “Is that what you think? Yura, you think we'd let you go back to that horrible woman?”

Yuri is confused. “But… what?”

Victor smiles, kindly, at him. “You're going to be emancipated. Yakov’s already filed the paperwork and everything.”

“…emancipated?”

“Yes. When the court emancipates you, you're a legal adult, even though you're not eighteen yet.”

“What the hell?” He shoots Yuuri a baffled look. “That's a thing?”

They both laugh. “Yes, that's a thing.”

It’s the best news Yuri’s heard in days. Really, it feels too good to be true, and he’s reluctant to get too excited. “Will it work?” he demands.

Victor smiles patiently at him. “You've won gold for Russia in figure skating at several international competitions. I think you've got a pretty good case.”

Yuuri chimes in. “Not to mention you have an unfit parent, you live in your own apartment, you’ve been supporting your grandfather financially for almost as long as you’ve been competing…” He ticks them off on his fingers, but doesn’t mention the money Yuri’s been sending to his mother, for which Yuri is grateful.

Yuri looks back and forth between the two of them in disbelief. “I… didn't know.”

“Oh, my poor Yura.” Victor leans forward and brushes Yuri’s hair back. “Have you been worrying about this the whole time?” He smiles and cups Yuri's cheek with his palm. “This is why we wanted you to just talk to us. We could have told you _days ago_ if we had known you were so stressed.”

“Oh.” Yuri feels incredibly stupid, especially when he remembers what Victor said a minute ago. “Yakov did this?”

“Yeah, he was on the phone with his lawyer for hours, and faxing paperwork back and forth.”

So that's what he had been doing at the hotel all that time. He wasn't coaching Mila, or at the very least, he wasn't _only_ coaching Mila. He was helping Yuri.

At a loss, Yuri asks, “Why didn't he tell me?”

Yuuri frowns. “We figured you had enough on your mind. Yakov was going to explain it all when you got back to St. Petersburg.”

“I yelled at him.” A few more tears escape Yuri’s eyes. He’s starting to get sick of all the crying, but he can’t help it. “I sent him away.”

Victor interjects immediately. “Don't worry about that. Yakov is a good man, but he doesn’t deal with this kind of thing very well. I really don't think he knew how to act around you. That's probably why he picked a fight with a grieving sixteen-year-old instead of being patient with him.” Yuuri and Victor exchange frustrated looks. Apparently they weren't too happy with the way Yakov acted yesterday.

Yuri finds himself rushing to defend him. “I was the one who started that fight.”

“But Yakov should have handled it better.” Victor shakes his head. “That's not the point. The point is, Yakov was already uncomfortable here anyway. So don't feel bad about fighting with him.”

Yuri nods slowly. When Yuuri hands him another glass of water, he sips it.

“Is there anything else?” Yuuri asks gently.

Yuri’s sure there is, but his mind is going blank right now, so he just shrugs and shakes his head. He feels physically and emotionally drained, and just empty. At the same time, a huge weight feels like it's been lifted off his shoulders.

Yuuri takes the glass of water from him and Victor holds him close again, running his fingers up and down his bare arm. Yuri shakes and sniffles, but the tears have finally stopped coming. His breath still catches every once in a while, as if his body has gotten so used to crying, it’s reluctant to stop.

Still, the air is cleansing. Every inhale is fills his body, all the way down to his fingertips and toes. Every exhale takes with it some of his stress and sorrow. The knot in his heart slowly unties itself. Slowly, he relaxes, sagging against Victor. His eyes start to droop.

Victor must sense that Yuri's fading, because he leans them back until they're laying down. Yuri’s head is in the crook of Victor’s neck. He can feel Victor’s chin on the top of his head. Yuuri's there at Yuri's back, clutching him from behind.

Safe in their embrace and comforted by their touches, Yuri finally drifts off.

 

* * *

 

Yuri doesn't know how long he's been asleep, but when he wakes up, the room is a lot darker. There's one light on in the corner, casting the room in a golden glow.

He lays still for a few minutes, just getting his bearings. His cheek is pressed against Victor’s shoulder, and every now and then he can feel Victor’s soft snore. Yuuri is still curled around his back, feeding him warmth.

Yuri's eyes feel swollen. When he blinks, it's gritty, like his tear ducts have gone AWOL on him now. When he licks his lips, he can taste the salty remnants of his weepfest. The dried tear tracks are stiff on his cheeks. Gross. He needs to wash his face.

But he's surprised to find that he actually feels better. He would have sworn he'd wake up feeling humiliated that he let himself go so badly in front of Victor and Yuuri. But right now, sandwiched between them, he realizes there's no one else he could have possibly bared his soul to.

Part of him wants to lay there, enveloped in the security of their arms forever, but he's feeling crazy dehydrated. He tries to get up as slowly as he can, so as not to wake either of them up. Unfortunately, he's failed to notice Yuuri's arm across his waist, and a secret escape is impossible.

Yuuri stirs, blinks up at him blearily. “Hey, Yurio,” he says, his voice thick with sleep. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Yuri’s voice doesn't sound much better.

“You need something?” Yuuri pushes himself to sit up.

Yuri nods. “I was going to get some water.”

“I can get it.” But before Yuuri can get up, Yuri's stomach growls audibly. Yuuri’s face breaks out into a grin. “And some food? You feel like eating?”

Yuri is surprised when he answers, “Yeah,” right away. None of them have had anything to eat since that morning, before the funeral. Even then, Yuri only had juice. But more importantly, for the first time since Skate America, Yuri realizes he actually _wants_ to eat.

Yuuri shoots him a mischievous glance. “Should we wake up Victor? I want to go out. I'm kinda tired of room service, aren't you?”

Yuri nods and returns his smile. As the two of them jump on Victor, Yuri thinks that maybe, just _maybe_ , things can be almost normal again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cuddle party!!! If it was up to me, all problems in every fanfiction would be solved with a cuddle party.
> 
> Over the course of editing, I wrote a few scenes from Victor or Yuuri’s POV’s, just to see, but ultimately realized the story’s much more powerful from just Yurio’s POV. But you guys have had to deal with a lot of angst, so here’s a fun little bonus scene, after Yuri falls asleep. It's unpolished and kind of pointless, but I think it shows how Yuuri and Victor are kind of putting up a front for Yurio, and once they're alone, they act more normal. 
> 
> (Is Craigslist in Russia? Whatever, we’re past the point of pretending to be accurate.)
> 
> BONUS SCENE:
> 
> After Victor lays the three of them down, it’s only a few minutes before Yurio’s breathing evens out. Yuuri frowns as he remembers that what little sleep the poor kid's had has been fraught with nightmares. Hopefully, having talked through some of his feelings will help with that.
> 
> When Yuuri’s sure Yurio’s asleep, he gently slides away. He’s still wearing his funeral suit, and he needs to get the precious pirozhki back into the freezer before it thaws any more.
> 
> “Yuuuuuri….” Victor’s soft whine sounds from behind him as he unbuttons his shirt. “I’m stuck.”
> 
> Yuuri turns to regard the two of them on the bed. Yurio’s dead to the world, his head on Victor’s shoulder and his arm draped across his chest. He makes little snuffly noises as he breathes, his nose in rough shape from the crying.
> 
> Victor is, indeed, stuck. He stares at Yuuri with pleading eyes.
> 
> Yuuri shutters his face into a warning look. “Vitya, if you wake that child up, so help me, I am getting rid of that pole you bought for the den.”
> 
> Victor gasps slightly. “I haven’t even had a chance to set it up yet.”
> 
> Yuuri tugs on a t-shirt. “Then you’d better quiet down.”
> 
> By the time Yuuri returns from putting away the pirozhki and disposing of the many tissues that blanketed the bedside table, Victor has managed to twist a tiny bit to look at the clock.
> 
> “Yuuri,” he whispers. “It’s barely three. I could be here for hours.”
> 
> “Hmmm.” Yuuri pretends to ignore him, pulling out his phone. “What section of Craigslist would ‘stripper pole’ fall under? Not furniture…?”
> 
> Victor whimpers, which makes Yurio moan and stir a little bit. Victor freezes and holds his breath until Yurio relaxes.
> 
> Yuuri chuckles and curls up against Yurio’s back again. In a moment of mercy, he hands his phone over to Victor. “Just rest. Answer some fan mail or something.”
> 
> “Hey, you didn’t have Craigslist up at all!” Victor whisper-teases, and they both laugh a little.
> 
> Now phoneless, it isn’t long until Yuuri begins to yawn. He’s starting to fall asleep when Victor speaks again.
> 
> “Yuuri?”
> 
> “Mmm?”
> 
> “Did I do okay?”
> 
> Yuuri blinks himself awake, pushes himself up on his elbow to look at Victor. “With Yurio, you mean?”
> 
> “You know I’m not great with people crying.” Victor looks miserable. “It seemed like you were saying all the right things, but…”
> 
> “Hey,” Yuuri says, cutting him off. “You did great. You helped him, too.”
> 
> “You think?” Victor offers him a hopeful smile.
> 
> Yuuri doesn’t dare lean over Yurio, so he kisses his hand and reaches over to pat it onto Victor’s cheek. “Trust me.”


	7. Yuri's Exhibition Skate (Epilogue)

Alone on the ice, Yuri takes a deep breath. The stadium is full of thunderous applause, although whether it's because of his Grand Prix Final scores or because the announcer is explaining that Yuri’s exhibition skate is dedicated to his recently departed grandfather, Yuri doesn't know.

He only had a week, so Yuri worked tirelessly on this program. It’s quite easily the most personal program he’s ever skated. He's almost more nervous to perform now than he was when he stepped out on the ice for his competitive pieces over the last couple days.

He takes his beginning stance and waits for his cue. The familiar first notes of _On Love: Agape_ ring out over the speakers.

Victor was able to convince the original composer to create a new arrangement for Yuri, last minute. They are calling this one _On Loss: Agape_. The first part, though, is the original piece, and Yuri uses his old choreography, too. _On Love: Agape_ has always been about his grandpa.

Soon enough, the music changes, growing lower and more ominous. Yuri stumbles on purpose. The music is frantic, chasing him. This part of the program is hard for him to do, because it’s so indicative of how he still feels about his grandfather’s death sometimes. He'll be at home, alone, and the residual shock will suddenly crash to him, and he’s unable to escape.

He skates aggressively, almost fighting the music, but in its climax, the music wins. He does a quad Salchow and botches the landing, tumbling into dramatic-looking but perfectly safe roll until he lays in a crumpled heap on the ice. The violins hold a suspenseful, continuous note.

Yuri remains still and waits the note out. Then, a single piccolo rings out and Yuri lifts his head weakly. As the piccolo is joined by a few more, Yuri struggles to his feet. They play a mournful melody as Yuri regains his footing and begins a slow step sequence.

This part represents when Yuri finally embraced his grief. He had been hoping the vocalist from the original piece would have been available, but on such short notice, it had been impossible. Somehow, though, the piccolos make it better, like a certain shift from a human presence to one defined only by sound. Yuuri calls it ‘otherworldly.’

He goes into a spread eagle, arms open wide, accepting what has happened to him.

He's cried a lot in the days since he's come back from Moscow. But crying, as it turns out, is cathartic. Who knew?

Even now, as Yuri is pouring his heart into the routine, he feels a tear run down his cheek. But that's okay.

The music gradually turns more joyous and Yuri celebrates in the agape all around him that still remains. In the last couple of phrases in the song, he extends his arms in time to the music.

First he gestures to where he knows Victor and Yuuri are watching. He’s called one or the other them over to his apartment more than once this week, when he’s needed someone to talk to, or maybe just some company.

Then he motions fleetingly to Yakov. When he returned to St. Petersburg, he’d thrown himself at the poor old man, and Yakov had held him in his sturdy embrace, their fight behind them. He’d handled all the details surrounding Yuri’s emancipation. Yuri’s lawyer got them a court date before Worlds, and assured them the judge was very likely to rule in their favor.

Yuri still hasn’t decided whether he wanted to keep sending his mother money after he became a legal adult. Ultimately, it didn’t seem smart to make a big decision right now, when he’s grieving. He’d deal with it one day, but it's an issue that can wait.

He raises an arm to Otabek, who can uncannily sense when Yuri is feeling particularly blue and sends him funny memes at the perfect times.

Lastly, Yuri aims a sweeping hand around the entire stadium, at the other skaters and the audience as he spins. It's his way of saying thank you for all their support.

As the music winds to an end, Yuri stops spinning and, just as the end note is held, puts one hand on his heart and holds one hand toward the sky. That mournful little piccolo tune rings out. _I'll always love you, Grandpa._

As the routine ends, Yuri knows it's not just one lone tear on his face anymore. He bows and feels the now-familiar pang of sorrow when he wishes his grandfather could have seen that.

The pain of losing him hasn't gone away. Perhaps it never will. But Yuri has learned that not all family is related by blood.

And his family will take care of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, guys! I'd like to especially thank my beta reader (you know who you are) and everyone who reviewed! I'm really happy I wrote this story. It seriously changed my entire understanding of Yurio as a character. I love him so much now!
> 
> Anyway, I'm not working on anything new at the moment, but I'm trying to plan out something for NaNoWriMo (shoutout to my fellow NaNoers!), so hopefully I'll have something new to post in December. I know it's a long time from now, but I'm SUPER undisciplined when it comes to writing. And a perfectionist. And a procrastinator. It's really a bad combination. But that's what NaNo's for! Feel free to add me as a buddy if you're participating, too. I'm always looking for new writing buddies, newbies to mentor, etc. My username over there is Paige42. Everyone else... see you in December, probably!


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